


You're The Only Place That Feels Like Home

by alexabarton



Series: Deduce My Ruined Heart [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bad Dirty Talk, Blow Jobs, Coming Out, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Teenlock, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 09:42:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3442451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexabarton/pseuds/alexabarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John struggles to come to terms with the attack on Sherlock and searches for someone to blame. Forced out of London, John and Sherlock go home for John's birthday, but his mum thinks Sherlock is just a new Uni friend.</p>
<p>Can Sherlock cope with separate beds?<br/>Or will this be John's worst birthday ever?</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're The Only Place That Feels Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> This one turned out to be quite John-centric - and I suck at summaries (I swear that took longer to write than the smut) 
> 
> This may be the penultimate episode - but don't hold me to that - it did start off life as a one-shot after all!

 

 

It was all like a bad dream, the air thick around him like time had slowed down and he was wading through some twilight world that made no sense at all. He’d walked back to the room, harms full of snacks from the machine, knowing he’d been gone longer than he’d said, but didn’t think it mattered at the time, because it really didn’t, did it? Now he wasn’t so sure, his mind racing back over the past ten minutes and wondering how the hell things had all gone to shit so fast.

Now every tiny detail from the time he’d left the room, the walk to the vending machine, cursing when they were out of Twix and he’d had to get Snickers instead, the wait for a cleaner with a floor polisher to finish and move, the walk back, every second analysed for something he’d obviously missed.

Think. Think John.

Sherlock would kill him, glare at him through narrowed eyes like the imbecile he was for being so bloody thick and slow.

Sherlock. Jesus Christ Sherlock.

The minute he’d stepped through the door he knew it, the words ‘tough shit they were out of Twix I had to…’ dying on his lips, the cans and packets crashing to the ground as he’d ran, leapt, hurled himself across the room to the figure lying prone on the floor by the window. And still it felt like wading through treacle, taking just too long to get there, and scared of what he’d find when he did.

Sherlock was so still, so fucking silent, lying at an awkward angle looking twisted and broken, the cold breeze through the open window having turned his skin to ice. The red pin-point glow of a lit cigarette, lay smouldering on the floor beside him, Sherlock hadn’t even had the time to put his lips to it. John pressed his foot down, hard.

He was out. Out cold. Knocked unconscious from a blow to the head or a fall, and cracked his temple against the window sill as he went down. John fought the rising panic, the scream that was desperate to erupt from his lungs and pressed two fingers, shaking uncontrollably to the pulse point in the side of Sherlock’s neck. There, it was there, beating strong and hard under his fingertips, blood and life pumping madly just beneath the surface. So he gently rolled him over into the recovery position and checked he was breathing freely running shaking hands carefully over the dips and planes of his body for reassurance more than anything.

He let out the breath he’d been holding and sank to the floor, slumping forward, feeling sick and dizzy with relief.

Get it together John for fuck’s sake. He only gave himself a second, just to catch his breath enough to move again, he needed light, the room still steeped in darkness, should check him over properly and shit, yeah, call a fucking Ambulance. So he rose, snapping on the light, and scrambled up the bed to reach his phone on the table at its side, pressed 999 with a shaking thumb.

He didn’t know what to do now. It was freezing with the window open, but he didn’t dare close it either because what if they’d come in the room that way? It was possible, they were on the ground floor and he hadn’t passed a sole in the corridor outside. It was a crime scene, not just an accident and god knows what evidence he’d be destroying if he touched the wrong thing. So he left it for now, concentrating on Sherlock instead but scared to touch him too much, for much the same stupid fucking reason.

No, John thought. Fuck it. The police could go to hell. Eight minutes was the estimated time for the Ambulance, the drive across London against the late night traffic, it hadn’t even been two yet, six more to go.

So he bent down beside him again, trying to breathe past the knot in his chest , and gently reached out to brush the hair back from Sherlock’s forehead, fingers making contact with something warm and sticky matted into his thick dark hair. His fingers came away dark, the copper tang of blood in the air as he raised them to his face and gave a cautious sniff. Some had run down his face too, just along the hairline, and had pooled in the crease of his ear. In the dark, in his panic he’d missed the blood the first time, a dark slick trail running from a wound at the temple.

Someone had smacked him on the head, come up behind him and caught him unawares, there were no other signs of a scuffle so Sherlock may have thought it was him, turned his head and…smack.

Fuck. John felt ill, but he had to detach, try not to see his boyfriend lying there, who’d had his legs wrapped around him just minutes ago, told him he loved him, kissed him, bit him, been fucked, shit…he had to think this through.

There was a blanket, folded on the tub chair by the bed, and so he grabbed it, shaking it out to full size and carefully draped it over Sherlock’s still body. It would keep him warm if nothing else, just until help arrived. He sat still at the edge of the bed, shivering despite being dressed and rocking back and forwards slightly, hands clasped between his knees, the shock he supposed, anxiety, nerves, fear .

All he could do was stare, at the soft rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest under the blanket, the curve of his back and shoulder gently turned away from him, so fucking pale under the sickly yellow glare of a sixty-watt bulb.

What the fuck was he doing over here? He should be there on the floor beside him again, watching, waiting, monitoring like the doctor he was supposed to be, he couldn’t just sling a blanket over the mess and then leave him there, because Sherlock might not be a crime scene but it didn’t stop him looking like one. So he grabbed some pants that lay in the tangle of sheets on the bed, and walked, in stiff mechanical movements to drop down on the carpet beside him, knees banging painfully onto the thin, cheap carpet which barely cushioned him from the unyielding hardness of the floor beneath.

He could see the gentle flicker of his eyelids, the eyeballs rolling in a jittery movement in the deep dreamless state of unconsciousness. Gently, carefully John uncovered him again and slotting two feet through the holes of the underwear he dragged them up his thighs, hitching them up and over the swell of his arse.

Not that Sherlock would care if the world saw his dick, but to John it just seemed…decent…more dignified somehow.

The door crashed open, smacking off the wall and rebounding back again, stopped dead by the strong steel point of an extremely expensive umbrella. John jumped guiltily startled by the sudden noise as Mycroft Holmes strode into the room eyes casting wildly around. He looked ruffled and a little sweaty like he’d just been running, breathing a little faster than normal, almost unrecognisable compared to the immaculate, dangerously poised man John had come to know. He glared at John, clicked his tongue in obvious disapproval before striding across the room, kicking the discarded packets aside and slamming the window shut with a crack.

The faint buzz of life from outside immediately cut out, the room was bathed in silence, Mycroft sucking in air through his nose, jaw clenched before he turned to snap at him.

“Were you trying to add hypothermia to the list of current injuries or are you just terminally stupid?”

“I…I didn’t think I…”

“Clearly”.

Mycroft paced round the room like a tiger in a cage, bending to check in corners and standing on the bed to look behind the picture on the wall. He jumped down and crouched to look under the bed, wrinkling his nose as he cast aside Sherlock’s crumpled purple shirt and John’s discarded underwear. He strode into the bathroom next, and John heard the tinkle of glass and the sound of the shower curtain ripped from the metal rings that held it, bottles clanging and echoing off the base of the ceramic bath tub.

“How did you know?…that there was something wrong I mean. I only phoned for the Ambulance five minutes ago”, John called, the tension came rolling off Mycroft in waves, and it was terrifying him, “I mean I’m sorry”, he stuttered helplessly, “ I meant to phone you but I didn’t want to leave him on his own again, …….I was only gone a few minutes, for food and a drink, and when I got back I…..”

Mycroft appeared in the bathroom doorway and held up a hand impatiently to cut him off. “Stop Mr Watson, I can barely make out a coherent train of thought amongst that endless stream of babble. You just called for an ambulance…of course I would know.”

“But…”

“How? “ Mycroft gave him a look, the look that he always did, that ‘don’t be an idiot’ glare that on any other day he would laugh at, the drama and theatrics of the mysterious sleek black car, the umbrella and the three piece suit that he wore even on a weekend. But not now.

“Yeah, right of course I know how, sorry”.

Well, he didn’t actually know, but could well imagine just how far Mycroft’s influence really reached. But never had John been happier for his particular brand of overbearing interference, despite it all making him feel so incredibly fucking useless.

Mycroft crossed to stand beside him and then hunkered down, throwing his umbrella on the end of the bed and then bent carefully over his brother, hands braced against the carpet for balance. His face was close, not more than an inch or two away as he scanned up and down Sherlock’s still, pale body, gathering data, assessing, to draw the same conclusions that John had already come to.

He could have just asked, John thought a little bitterly, as he subtly moved out of the way, it was like his opinion didn’t matter in some fundamental respect, that he was just a kid, and what did he know about anything. At least here, in a medical capacity, John believed he might know more than him.

“Much as I respect your opinion John”, said Mycroft in yet another frightening display of prescience, “I merely wished to see for myself. Blunt action trauma to the left temple, no other visible signs of injury, although I must say there are some rather interesting contusions on his upper body”, Mycroft looked at him pointedly, “I’m assuming by the interesting shade of pink in your face that they, at least, were wholly consensual?”

Oh god, he was not going to discuss his and Sherlock’s bloody sex life with his brother. That was a line that should never be crossed.

“If you don’t mind Mycroft I don’t think I want to talk about that”.

“Yes”, Mycroft drawled, “I don’t suppose you do, but the police might”.

“Fuck…no…really?”

“Does that come as a surprise? My brother is attacked by an unknown assailant with apparently no witnesses, they will be interested in every last detail of his condition, don’t you think?, and as you were the last person to see him before the attack I should imagine they will be very interested to hear what you have to say”.

“I didn’t see anything, I came back, he was on the floor, I phoned for help…that’s it Mycroft, I can’t tell you anything else…wait…do you think someone was watching us…watching the room?”

“The timescale involved would seem to suggest that yes…..you obviously had no intention of leaving the immediate vicinity”, he looked John up and down, the t-shirt, the jeans, bare feet and went on, “and you were hardly suitably attired to venture outside…and so yes, l believe this was an opportunist attack, there was no guarantee that you would leave the room at all, but that does not mean there was no actual planning involved. There were cameras here, installed specifically for Sherlock’s protection when I arranged for him to perform here this evening, but at some point during the course of the evening someone has seen fit to remove them”.He scanned around the room again with narrowed eyes.

That explained the wild rampage around the room then, John thought, and the destruction and mess in the bathroom, and although the intention had been to keep Sherlock safe tonight he still felt a little violated as he tried to erase the image of some stuffy old civil servant potentially watching him and Sherlock snogging and having sex.

At the risk of annoying Mycroft even more he chose to ask the obvious again. “But how come you didn’t know about the cameras earlier?”

“Good question Mr Watson, it seems a digital image of an empty room is laughably easy to run on a loop and go undetected for hours…rest assured someone will be losing their job tomorrow”, he sighed, looking thoughtful. A phone buzzed in the pocket of his suit and he drew it out. “Ah, it would seem the medical team are here, and I hope you don’t mind John, Greg is on his way over”.

“Why should I mind?” John was a little puzzled, not quite catching the implication at first. His head snapped around at the sound of a brisk knock on the door and it opened, two paramedics entering with a portable wheeled stretcher and a bag of medical paraphernalia. He stood uselessly to one side while they fired questions at Mycroft and bent over Sherlock, checking his vitals and god knows what else until a warm hand curled firmly around his shoulder making him jump again.

“Hey mate, steady, it’s just me”.

The safe solid form of Greg Lestrade stood behind him, in plain clothes now, smelling of coffee and the faint whiff of diesel fumes. He must have just come off shift, tired, dark eyes looking heavy and face a little pinched with worry and fatigue. He nodded to Mycroft but didn’t go over, and taking John by the arm he led him gently over to the bed and made him sit down. He sat down by him and scrubbed his hands through his hair as they watched the medics settling Sherlock on the stretcher.

He still hadn’t stirred , arms hanging limp as a ragdolls over the side until they were lifted, and tucked in tight under an orange waffle blanket. He looked so young and so fucking breakable, and John bent double at the waist as his stomach stabbed and twisted again.

“Clothes John?”.

“Huh?” he looked up. Greg’s mouth was moving but it was difficult to make out the actual words when he just couldn’t think through the ringing in his ears and the searing pain in his abdomen. Greg reached out and stroked along his back, up and down, trying to calm him, reassure him, his legs had started shaking again, and he blinked in confusion for a second as a small silver hip flask was pressed firmly into his hand.

“Cheers Myc”, Greg said beside him, and guiding the flask to John’s lips he made him take a drink. It burned, catching the back of his throat at first, but Greg made him sip again, and this time it slid down , the warmth of it spreading slowly through his chest.

“You good now? Better?” Greg clapped a hand to his shoulder and he nodded weakly, not even bothering to puzzle why Mycroft of all people carried his own personal supply of double malt whiskey, but thankful tonight that he did.

“I’ll ask again mate, now you’re back in the land of the living, where’s your gear, your clothes?”

“Oh, right”. He looked around him, and then around the room. Sherlock’s things were on the tub chair, jacket and trousers, shoes placed underneath. The shirt was still on the floor in a ball, and the tie was slung over the headboard of the bed. John’s stuff, shoe’s and jacket were half under the bed on the opposite side to where they were now. Greg passed them up and he dressed in a daze.

“Mycroft carries whiskey?” he croaked, eventually, as Greg, satisfied he was as ready as he could be, took him by the arm and led him from the room.

“Yeah well, his brother is Sherlock”, Greg said with a low chuckle, and John nodded in resignation, because that made sense. If there ever was a kid that would drive you to drink it was him.

The corridor outside was empty, roped off at one end to prevent anyone else wandering down and obstructing the emergency services, but that hadn’t stopped a small crowd from gathering, peering curiously and muttering to each other as they hovered by the barrier.

“Hang on, no…I want to stay with him…where are we going?” John pulled back a little, tugging against the grip of Greg’s arm as he steered him away, out of the room and towards the hotel foyer.

“Calm down for fuck’s John”, he whispered hoarsely in his ear, “it’s family only in the ambulance so I’m going to drive you over to the hospital, no-one’s trying to shut you out…he’ll be fine, I’ve seen a lot worse every weekend at chucking-out time…..you’ll get to see him in a bit, okay?”.

John wasn’t convinced and it wasn’t okay.

Christ, it hurt not to see him, to just be forced to stand here while they wheeled Sherlock away, the main doors of the hotel flung wide for access and the ambulance pulled right up to the steps, open and ready at the back for them to lift him in. They stood awkwardly, close to the wall to let the crew through, as a white-faced, tight lipped Mycroft, walked briskly behind.

The police had arrived, blue lights flashing in the darkness like a parody of the disco lights in the ballroom, the suited officers nodding to Greg as they made their way down to the room. Mycroft rolled his eyes and Greg nodded in silent comprehension, peeling off and leaving John standing as he jogged over to speak with him. They conferred, Mycroft leaning in to speak directly into Greg’s ear, Greg stroked his arm, gentle and soothing and with a soft smile pressed a kiss to his lips. They stepped apart, Mycroft climbed up into the back of the ambulance, the doors closed and it pulled away.

Greg sauntered back hands in pockets, looking slightly apologetic. “Give us a minute kid? Myc wants me to brief the Inspector before we head off…and don’t worry, No-one’s going to hassle you for a statement tonight, stay here and I’ll do my best to convince them you’ve already gone okay? Pull you in tomorrow instead”.

He nodded, because he had no choice, the grown-ups were running the show now and he felt strangely obsolete, trying to look inconspicuous as Greg left him, jogging back the way they had come. He hovered by the barrier and tried to blend in with the rest of the party crowd while an official looking someone ushered out the remaining guests in dribs and drabs. Mrs Hudson was amongst them, looking smaller than ever in a heavy fake-fur coat. She caught his eye and waved at him madly, gesturing him over, so he pushed off the wall and trotted over to the other end of the taped off area one eye still watching for Greg to reappear.

“Oh John dear was that Sherlock? What’s happened, has he taken ill?” She was biting nervously at the edge of her lip, and her small wrinkled hands hovered nervously around her face, brushing fingertips against the skin. “He always looks so thin you see, for a boy his height, and you know… I can’t help but worry about the other thing…it wasn’t, was it?”.

The last words were said in a whisper. She looked stricken, and gasped, clasping a hand to her mouth in the realisation she’d said let something slip that she’d thought John didn’t already know about. She meant drugs, it was the only other thing he could think of, the most logical conclusion. She’d known all about it, even before Sherlock had told him, because that last time Sherlock saw her was over three weeks ago now.

“I don’t know yet”, he lied, not sure how much he should give away as he glanced warily at the figure behind her, a hand laid protectively…or possessively…on top of her bird-like shoulder. The mysterious and elusive Frank Hudson, John presumed. In all this mess he realised this was the first time that either of them had laid eyes on him, because he was pretty damn sure Sherlock had never seen him before, or he would have described the bloke to him. He was average height, an inch or so taller than John and on the whole, unremarkable, a balding head shaved close to disguise the fact and a full moustache and beard trimmed quite close and neat in silver-grey. He had a slightly shrunken look, the suit he was wearing well-cut but too large which gave the impression he’d been a big man in the past but now, whether through age or illness, or something else entirely, he appeared rather shrunken. But still, there was steel in his eye, quietly cool and calculating as he looked John over, hanging back and saying nothing.

“John!” Greg’s voice cut through the buzz of chatter around him, and Mrs Hudson reached out to pat his arm in a gesture of understanding as the queue to leave began to push forward again.

“You go dear…go be with him…your boy needs you…just give him my love dear, I’ll be thinking about him”.

“Yeah thanks Mrs Hudson …I’ll tell him”, he said as she turned with a last faint smile, with Frank pressed in close behind her.

He watched as Frank bent close to whisper in her ear and saw the answering frown of confusion and shake of the head she gave him, and the nervous turn of her head back in John’s direction. And then, just as the couple reached the stairs he turned, and winked at him.

“You ready mate? Myc just called, said to tell you he’s fine, still out but stable and he’ll let us know the room number as soon as he can. Perks of being a government hot-shot I guess, getting the bloody VIP treatment”.

Greg was only trying to be cheerful and upbeat, he knew that, but John felt wretched, thinking about Sherlock in the ambulance without him, and him waking up and John not being there when he did, and it felt like a part of him had been ripped from his chest.

The air outside was cool, the night sky clear, signalling the rare appearance of stars, usually obscured from view by the artificial lights of the city as they walked along side by side towards the knackered blue van, so familiar now, a solid reminder of the first night they met. He remembered standing in that yard as the van pulled away that night, fully believing that he’d never see that mysterious, incredible boy again and silently cursing himself for turning down the offer of a lift. So much had happened between then and now, it seemed like a dream, a whole lifetime ago…. and the time before that?

Life before Sherlock just didn’t seem real anymore, a shadow world that just didn’t make sense, because who the hell was he without Sherlock?, who the hell had he been? A lie, that’s what, his whole damn existence a fucking charade. But it was terrible and amazing and he was so fucking scared at the depth of his feelings and the lack of control he had over them.

And there, leaning against the bonnet of a sleek red Audi convertible, was Victor fucking Trevor, talking animatedly into a shiny black i-phone, obviously sobered-up now with a smug, irritating smile on his face.

Before Greg could stop him, before he could even think, he stormed across the carpark, feet thudding loudly against the tarmac, closer and closer as Victor’s eyes went wide in realisation, backing away with his hands raised in a gesture of supplication.

“Did you have something to do with this?...Did you? You fucking smarmy bastard…cause if I find out you did mate I’ll fucking kill you!”.

He was shouting, screaming, red-faced and bristling with rage, angrily shaking off Greg’s warning touch as he stormed across fully intent on shoving his fist as fast and hard as he could into the first available body part. If he broke a bone or two along the way, so be it, arrest him, Greg was here anyway so they could just cut out the middle-man and have him do it.

He’d been laughing. While Sherlock was wheeled off unconscious on a stretcher in front of his eyes the bastard didn’t even lift his head. Well John would lift it for him and knock it clean off his fucking shoulders.

“John, for fuck’s sake man, just leave it, come on”, Greg shouted, jogging to catch up with him he was moving so fast, almost running now. Victor had moved round the bonnet, standing at the other side to put a ton of solid, bright red car between them like the coward he was.

“Your dad’s hotel you said, you own the fucking place…so who knocked the cameras out hmm? Who has a master key hmm? Are you that sad, are you that desperate that you couldn’t back the fuck off and let him be happy for once?”

“Listen….John isn’t it?”, said Victor...I haven’t got the faintest fucking idea what you’re talking about, what do you mean?, what bloody camera’s?”

The prick was going to deny it. John shook his head, incredulous, “Sherlock you prick…Sherlock…who did you think the ambulance was for? Aren’t you supposed to be the one in charge when you’re not chasing after teenage boys?”

“Sherlock’s been….Sherlock’s hurt?....I just thought someone must have had a little too much at the party and passed out, my father, he said there’d been an incident but that he had it covered and not to worry…I…shit John…and you think I would?...don’t be a knob I love him….I….fuck” He trailed off, aware that he’d revealed a bit too much, it wasn’t exactly bright to blurt out the fact he still loved him whether it was actually true or not.

John was reeling. Who else had the access and the motive? when not an hour before he’d found out about him and Sherlock and the reaction hadn’t exactly been favourable.

“Jealous then are you? Did you get someone else to do it for you or were you hoping it would be me they twatted on the head, not him?”

“For fuck’s sake you little shit”, Victor shot back, “I haven’t done anything, I would never hurt him…but if you’d like to repeat those accusations in front of a lawyer then go ahead…and then we’ll see who comes out of this worse”.

John lurched forward, but Greg was quicker, grabbing his arms in a tight locking grip and pulling them behind his back. He struggled, grunting and wriggling to free himself, livid that Greg would do this to him when he wasn’t the one who had done something wrong, the rational part of his mind offline. Greg spoke low, growling into his ear from behind. John could feel the tight press of his body and the strength in his arms effectively restraining him and his feet scrabbled uselessly against the ground. It was his day job and he was bloody good at it. John was going no-where.

“What are you trying to do John? Is this what Sherlock would want? You in a prison cell for assault? It’s a good job I’m not in fucking uniform or I’d have slapped the cuffs on by now….so just calm it, you can’t storm over throwing accusations like that around and generally shooting your mouth off, okay?……so calm the fuck down”.

John was breathing hard, deep and harsh through tightly clenched teeth, the noise of the blood rushing through his ears, deafening . Victor was white, bent forward and leaning on the car with both hands eying them warily. Greg’s phone rang in his pocket and John sagged in his grip, the adrenaline fading out now, and the desperation to be back with Sherlock overwhelming. Trevor could wait, he would get his sooner or later.

“That’ll be Mycroft”, said Greg, if I let go of you to answer this, you promise to behave yourself?”

“Yeah I guess”.

“Good” Greg let go and his knees gave way, the tension he’d been carrying within him dissipating, leaving him weak and drained. He dropped to his haunches on the tarmac and fought back the urge to burst into tears. What was he, twelve or something? Christ, he hadn’t cried once since his dad had died and then only in the privacy of his bedroom, late at night, and once at the funeral when he couldn’t bear the pitying looks and nauseating platitudes from relatives he’d never even seen before. He shuddered with the effort, the urge to punch still strong within. But Greg was right, Sherlock would be rolling his eyes right now, the way he’d let his emotions take over, not thinking logically, temperamental and headstrong.

He only heard Greg say ‘fine, bye’, and then he was back, standing over him and reaching out a tentative hand to haul him to his feet.

“Right, they got there…they’re checking Sherlock over as we speak, so are we done here…whatever the hell this is?”

John nodded, shooting Victor a final poisonous glare. Victor met his gaze steadily, more at ease now Greg had managed to bring things under control.

“Stop treating me like the enemy here John, we both have his best interests at heart…you never know we could even end up as friends”.

“Like hell we could”, John snapped, the thought truly nauseating. Victor was from a different world, and not one that John had the slightest desire to inhabit.

“You done?....good…van then…now”, Greg jerked his thumb to the left, “And you”, he said, turning back to Victor, “Don’t get too cocky, I don’t give a shit what daddy said, I’m going to make sure my Inspector pulls you in, you know, just so we can rule you out of the inquiry…I’m sure you understand eh?”

Greg’s grin was wide, like a Cheshire cat as he opened the van and they climbed inside, winking at John, “You satisfied now? The twat was getting right on my tits, the patronizing little cunt”.

Finally, John had something to smile about, “Yeah, thanks for that”.

“Didn’t do it for you mate…Myc’s been bending my ear about peado Trevor for the last couple of years…didn’t need much of an excuse to pull him in, mess with him a bit, but John, you do know it’s highly unlikely he had anything to do with it, right?”

“Yeah, I guess, I mean the cameras must have been knocked out a few hours ago, and he didn’t find out I was Sherlock’s boyfriend until later…sorry….I just wasn’t thinking straight”.

“You don’t say?”

Greg pulled away, grinding the gears a little in his haste, and John glanced out of the window to see Victor, sauntering back into the building, suit jacket slung casually across his shoulder like he didn’t have a care in the world, phone pressed to his ear and laughing at something John would never hear.

~*~

The clinical stink of the hospital hit him, the second the automatic doors slid open, disinfectant, canteen food and sickness. Mycroft had texted the room number, second floor, room one, one, three, a private wing naturally, nothing but the best for a Holmes. Not that John resented it, whichever way Sherlock got the very best care was more than fine by him.

When they reached the second floor, lungs bursting a little from the swift, impatient climb now they were finally here, near him again, they were brought up short by a tall bespectacled doctor brandishing an official looking clip-board.

“Can I go in?” John asked, craning his neck to see around him and cursing at the blinds drawn down tight over the windows and door.

“Well according to my records you can’t be family…one brother who is already here, so sorry, not yet we’re still running tests and visiting hours haven’t started yet”, he smiled, an insincere grimace born of years dealing with pushy, obnoxious friends and relatives, what remained of his compassionate bedside manner having long ago disappeared.

“Come on give the kid a break…he’s been going out of his skin…”, said Greg in his defence as he saw John’s shoulders sag again and his face crumple, “I’m a copper, I’ll make sure he behaves, you have my word”.

The doctor hissed an irritated breath and scowled at John, but swayed by Greg’s reassurance, he relented, and muttered he would ‘check with the young man’s brother first’ before he turned, disappearing back into the room. It was quiet inside, too quiet as the door closed softly with a click.

He heard a soft murmur of voices, Mycroft low and sonorous, all precision and clipped vowels, and the doctor, the one they’d just seen, with a higher female voice joining in. The door opened again and Anthea emerged, Blackberry clasped in her hand as usual, but actually making eye contact for a change, but she didn’t speak just smiled at John and nodded to Greg, walking off down the corridor in a swish of skirt against nylon tights and clicking stiletto heels.

The doctor came out, minus the self-comfort of his clip-board and silently motioned John over, holding the door open for him to enter.

The room was dimly lit, curtains closed and the overhead lights on a dimmer switch, as he stepped inside, eyes immediately drawn to the silent form of Sherlock, dark hair spread out upon the stark, white pillow.

“He’s fine”, Mycroft said, “We just have to wait now, he’ll wake when he’s good and ready apparently”.

His tone was calm and measured, the usual drawl of the terminally bored, but his body betrayed him too, as he tapped the tip of his umbrella in a staccato rhythm upon against the smooth, tiled floor. Nerves, a chink in his façade of brisk efficiency.

The smells were cloying and the atmosphere bordered on claustrophobic as John slid down into a seat at the bedside, the insistent buzz and whirr of machinery setting his teeth on edge. Sherlock breathed softly, flat on his back like he never, ever did, long limbs usually wrapped around John from behind, stealing the blankets and invading his body space, radiating heat like a furnace. John would bear it for a while, until it just got too hot and he shoved him off, finding a cool spot on the sheets and settling again. But come the morning he would be buried once more in a tangle of arms and legs with hair up his nose and an erection, pressing hard and insistent in the crack of his arse. Sherlock could have all the morning blowies he wanted after this, John would never complain again.

He wasn’t even sure if he was allowed to touch, Sherlock’s hands lying untucked along the length of his torso. He took one anyway, picked it up in his own and squeezed the fingers a little, a hollow feeling in his chest when there was still no response. He pressed his lips against the back, a soft kiss to let him know he was there and gently placed it down, resting it along his thigh.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Perhaps you would care for a coffee John? I promise to inform you straight away should there be any change, it could be minutes, or hours, they honestly can’t say”.

“Oh…er, yeah, okay”.

The chair scraped back along the floor as he rose to stand, a jarring screech of rubber-tipped metal on ceramic which made him wince, everything too loud, too much in his heightened state.

Is this what Sherlock felt like, the times when he was high? Or was this why he got high, to block out this terrifying excess of everything?

Maybe he understood a little better now, would be less judgemental on the nights Sherlock found it hard to cope and smoked cigarette after cigarette, hanging out the bedroom window in just his underwear or a t-shirt that he’d nicked from John, never one of his own.

Was it any wonder, he thought, that Sherlock had bailed on him when John had been hurt, so unable to process the turmoil inside him he’d drowned the whole thing in a chemical high.

Greg went with him, the cafeteria surprisingly busy despite the lateness of the hour, and it was nice to have company, someone that didn’t expect him to chat, or ask pointless questions, or ask him if he was okay every five bloody minutes. It was obvious he wasn’t. They sat for half an hour, Greg brought them refill’s and a couple of jam doughnuts, golden and thick with sugar, the sticky, sweet raspberry filling oozing out onto the plastic plate and paper napkin. He wasn’t even hungry, but the first bite made his stomach growl for more, so he wolfed it down in three huge bites, washed down with the rest of his coffee.

“Hungry, were you?” Greg laughed, shoving his across too, still untouched.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, go for it…your need is greater…and anyway, I had a Krispy Kreme when I came off shift, someone’s birthday….more coffee?”

“Nah…can we go back now, you know…just in case?”

The two cups of coffee kicked in on the walk back down so they parted, Greg walking on while John dipped into the loo’s for a piss, the kick of caffeine making his heart skip a little, a butterfly- flutter in his chest.

He was glad to feel awake, would sit there by the bed all night if he had to, just as long as Sherlock saw him, waiting, when he finally awoke. God had other plans though, and the minute he rounded the corner to the private rooms he knew, the whole atmosphere different, crackling with electricity and activity.

Sherlock was conscious.

He broke into a run, Greg turning in surprise at the sound of rapid footfall as he leant against the wall outside the door and holding a hand up for him to stop before he could reach for the handle and let himself in.

“I wouldn’t if I were you mate…better give it a minute”.

They both jolted and winced at the crash from within the room, a metallic clang as a kidney shaped vomit-bowl was hurled by someone inside, crashing onto the hard tiled floor and rattling madly as it settled. John raised both eyebrows, the occasion seemed to warrant it as the noise was accompanied by the sound of raised voices, one deep, the other deeper in the midst of an extremely animated argument.

The door whipped open and a young student nurse, just there to check on the patient chart came scuttling out, red-faced and wide-eyed, patently terrified. She looked between them both before scurrying off down the corridor and out of sight.

John caught vague snatches as the door swung closed again, Sherlock seemed to have stopped hurling hospital equipment around but continued to shout at full volume, an impressive feat for someone, who half an hour ago lay motionless in bed.

“Fuck you Mycroft!….”

“Nice”, said Greg, “nought to sixty in the time it takes to open your eyes, Jesus Christ that kid is fucking bat-shit…..and you my friend, he added, turning to John, “have the patience of a bloody saint…good luck with that”.

He patted him on the shoulder with a grin, as the shouting continued inside, well, Sherlock was shouting, Mycroft was trying to placate, like a horse whisperer faced with a particularly tempestuous thoroughbred stallion. John knew who the saint was, no wonder Mycroft was losing his hair at the age of twenty-four, he could feel his own follicles dying with every second that passed, or at least turning prematurely white. But such was his life now. The one he chose.

“Where is he?” he heard, a note of panic unmistakeable in Sherlock’s voice which made his chest clench again with anxiety, “I want him here, now…..coffee?.....Fuck the coffee….either get him or I’ll bloody well go down there and drag him the fuck back myself”.

The sound of rustling, the sound of muffled grunts as Mycroft tried to stop him doing as he’d threatened, to get out of bed and come in search of him.

“You’ve just suffered a blow to the head which rendered you unconscious for almost two hours, for god’s sake Sherlock stop behaving like a damned spoiled brat for once in your life and bloody well lie down”.

Greg smirked at that, raising another small smile in return from John because Mycroft never, ever swore. They heard the sound of impatient feet and the door opened wide before them, Mycroft standing with his tie askew and the buttons of his waistcoat undone, his jacket slung over the back of a chair in the corner, forgotten, alongside the ubiquitous umbrella.

“He’s all yours”, he snapped at John, holding the door open to gesture him inside, “and for god’s sake try and keep your hands off each other…this is a bloody hospital…and the doctor will want to see him again in a while…just so you know”, he quirked an eyebrow, as John brushed past him and finally stepped inside closing it behind him.

Sherlock’s face changed from belligerent annoyance to joy in an instant, “John!”, face lighting up as he saw him hovering unsure of the reaction he would get, hanging back until Sherlock held his arms out and called him over.

“What the hell are you standing there for? Get over here, I need you” he said peevishly, and John dived forward, crushing them together a little too roughly perhaps for someone with a head injury, but happy, just so fucking happy to have him awake, warm, responsive, his own sweet obnoxious self, back again.

“Christ you scared the shit out of me”, he said between kisses, Sherlock licking inside his mouth like he was chasing the taste of the doughnut and coffee, like he wanted to climb inside him, hands clutching the sides of his head in a vice grip. John just let him, went with the flow and let Sherlock move him the way that he wanted, biting his lip, sucking on his tongue, humming and purring like a contented kitten as he kicked his legs free and wrapped them around John’s waist, jerking John forward so that his shins banged off the side of the metal bedframe.

Sherlock broke for air and said, “Get on for fuck’s sake John”, tugging at the belt of his jeans to try and drag him up on the bed beside him, and deciding it would be a very good idea to keep his fingers there and unbuckle it at the same time. John had one knee on the mattress for balance, caught between heeding Mycroft’s warning and sliding his hands just a little further down to cup Sherlock’s arse through his flimsy cotton pyjama trousers. Damn it, need won out, so cop a feel it was, squeezing and kneading the firm flesh of that glorious behind. But common sense prevailed and he drew back, the doctor in him appalled, and pushed Sherlock gently down against the pillows again, ignoring his moans of protest.

“You have a concussion you knob, and we can’t have sex in your hospital room…Mycroft and Greg are outside and the doctor’s coming back to check on you in a bit”.

“Spoilsport”, Sherlock pouted, giving in with a huff and folding his legs inside the covers again, pulling them neatly up to his chest and tucking them in at the sides. “Happy now?” he huffed, but smiling a little, the corners of his mouth twitching up as John pulled a chair right up to the side of the bed and sat down. “How about a quick wank? I’ve got a stiffy now”.

“Fuck off Sherlock”.

“Nice… a fine way to treat your injured boyfriend in his hour of need”.

Sherlock settled back against the pillows with a sigh and grimaced a little, his hand reaching up automatically towards the neat row of sutures at his temple, the gash on his head stitched back together, covered up with a pad of gauze and surgical tape. His fingers hovered for a moment and fell away again as he thought better of touching the dressing.

“Do you need something? Pain killers?” John asked, concerned. Sherlock was in obvious pain, more than he would let on, and he had a high tolerance anyway, as he did for most extremes of sensation, but that didn’t mean he should suffer needlessly.

“Not without the approval of at least three fucking doctors I can’t….substance abuser….drug addict…do you think they’re going to let me loose on the good stuff in here?”

“Yeah but, they can’t just leave you in pain….I’ll go get Mycroft if you like, he can ask them, I doubt anyone’s going to refuse him”.

He had half-risen from his seat, turning towards the door when Sherlock reached out blindly and gripped him, tight and unyielding around the wrist. He had his eyes closed, and John could feel a faint tremor running through his body as he flinched again in obvious discomfort.

“You left”, he hissed through clenched teeth.

“What?”

“When I woke, just now, you weren’t here…” Sherlock opened his eyes then and loosened his grip slightly, but still held on, needing the tangible feel of skin on skin to convince himself that John really was here, and he wouldn’t disappear again. “You can’t leave…you’re not fucking allowed to…not anymore”.

John felt the weight of guilt, knowing that he would have been here sooner if he hadn’t gone off the deep-end nearly taking a swing at Victor without the evidence to back his accusation, just cold hard fury and hate.

“I’m sorry I…”

“I know…coffee”. Sherlock’s voice dripped with disdain.

“No…that’s not it…I came in with Greg, they wouldn’t let me come in the ambulance with you….but Christ Sherlock, you scared me so much, just lying there…when I opened that door and you were on the floor…shit…I …thought you were …were dead”.

“Well, apparently not, according to popular medical opinion”, Sherlock sighed and let go, “although there does seem to be a bit of a problem…”

He trailed off and huffed in disgust, the door bursting open again to reveal his brother and a doctor, a different one this time and the same nervous little student nurse. Mycroft rolled his eyes at them both, and John patted his hair down guiltily, still mussed and sticking up where Sherlock’s hands had been tangled in it minutes ago. The erection was gone though, thank god.

“John, if you could step outside a moment…”

“Why does he have to leave?...No John, stay!” Sherlock sneered at Mycroft, holding possessively onto John’s hand as he tried to get up from his chair and wait outside again with Greg, but caught now, hovering between the need to stay together and Mycroft’s disapproving glare. He glanced up at Mycroft, shrugged apologetically and Sherlock smirked in satisfaction as John made up his mind and sat back down again.

“I’ll stay I think…I already missed him waking up”.

“If you must”.

Mycroft turned to Sherlock then, while the doctor hung back, deferring to the authority of the elder homes even in what was strictly his area of expertise.

“Anything yet?…although I do realise you’re mind has recently been on other things”.

“Nope”.

Sherlock popped the ‘p’, just to annoy him, and fiddled with the blanket in his lap, head down, his right hand still wrapped in John’s, fingers interlinked. John felt uneasy, there was obviously something going on that he didn’t know, a glitch in the recovery, some underlying injury or internal damage which could have serious implications. It was his head for god’s sake, that amazing brain, grey matter encased in a breakable shell which some dickhead had tried to shatter tonight and destroy.

“Hmm….unfortunate, but not unheard of…perhaps all you need is rest, you have after all only recently regained consciousness”, Mycroft pursed his lips and looked at the doctor, seeking , what John could only assume was confirmation.

“Yes”, the doctor stuttered, taking the chart from the hook at the end of the bed and flipping over the sheets that were pinned there, paper in rainbow colours reducing Sherlock to facts ,figures and chemical compositions on a page, “very common occurrence, short term memory loss, although we can’t rule out a psychological basis at this point from the traumatic nature of the attack rather than the severity of the actual injury per se”. He looked up, smugly satisfied with his professional assessment to see Sherlock rolling his eyes in irritation and Mycroft looking bored, examining his fingernails. The confident expression faded in an instant.

“Quite”, said Mycroft, “any armchair doctor could have told me as much”, and then he turned, the doctor effectively dismissed as irrelevant and spoke to Sherlock again, “Not even gender?”

“I’ve already told you…NO!”

There was anger there this time, and irritation too, and John could sense the fear, the ultimate nightmare for Sherlock that he couldn’t rely on his own mental faculties, they had failed him, the answer to a vital question beyond his grasp.

“You left the room”, Sherlock said, turning his body to face him, “And I got out of bed to have a smoke out the window…you know…alarms…the smell…and that’s it. I pulled up the sash, lit the cigarette…and then woke up here”.

“Shit”, John said, eloquence deserting him once again, “so I take it you have no idea who attacked you, male, female, familiar, stranger, anything?”

“Not a single bloody thing” Sherlock admitted, “and it’s not psychological”, he snapped at the doctor, “it would take a hell of a lot more than that to scare me”.

“Your results”, the doctor continued, either brave or stupid, John had yet to decide, “would suggest otherwise, the wound was not severe, no fracture, little trauma, largely superficial really, no real force behind it, but that I would think, depended largely on the item used to inflict the blow”.

He looked up at Mycroft, in the hope of approval and baulked at the icy glare levelled his way. “I’ll leave you to it then”, he muttered and hurriedly left, chivvying the nurse along in front.

Sherlock pressed his head back and sighed dramatically once the door closed and they were alone, “I suppose I’ll have to go through all this rot again when the idiots in uniform arrive, will I?”

“I’m afraid so”, said Mycroft, “and they may want to discuss your other little injuries, I only think it fair to warn you, although I’m sure they’ve seen it all before”.

“Oh god, just tell them I like it rough and be damned…I really can’t be bothered with all this pointless bloody prodding and poking and question, questions, questions…it’s ridiculous, we didn’t do anything wrong and I don’t see the need to justify it to anyone”.

In the end it wasn’t so bad. The officers came to take statements, both of which were scant in detail on the actual crime because Sherlock had no recollection, and the perpetrator had fled the scene and disappeared into thin air before John made it back to the room. John’s only useful contribution he felt, was a description of the cleaner who had held him up for five minutes in the corridor, blocking the way with an industrial polisher for what now, in retrospect, was an unreasonable amount of time. A man, fifties, overweight, brown thinning hair and a lazy left eye, something they might have to ask him about again should it prove pertinent. Sherlock bristled at the suggestion of a sexual motive, a reasonable assumption given the fact he was naked at the time, but Mycroft intervened and the line of inquiry quashed for the time being.

“In the light of recent events”, said Mycroft when they were alone again, “and the fact that this entire situation is becoming quite frankly, bloody ridiculous, I want you out of London by the end of the week – both of you”.

Greg was there too, leaning against the window sill with his arms folded, looking up at the sound of Sherlock, poised and ready to object. “Listen, I’ve kept quiet on a lot of things, but Myc’s right, this is all getting a bit too serious now. You’ve both been hurt and I still think you were wrong John for staying quiet on that one, but this isn’t a bloody game of ‘let’s play detective’ or something no matter how you’ve tried to convince yourselves…these are bad people you’re on the wrong side of…if this was down to them that is”.

“I might have the answer”, said John, “it’s my birthday next week and I already sort of asked Sherlock if he wanted to go home with me, to meet my mum and sister and stuff”. He looked at Sherlock for approval. They had discussed it, and it was going to happen anyway, just a little bit sooner than either of them had anticipated.

Sherlock shrugged, but he looked pleased, no doubt at the thought of the previously posited illicit sex in John’s childhood bedroom, still, he answered with an air of nonchalance, “Yeah, I suppose I can live with that, as long as I can smoke”.

“My mum’s a fucking chimney mate so knock yourself out”.

Sherlock grinned, satisfied. Mycroft looked amused, “That sounds very entertaining, though for whom, I can’t be sure”, he sighed in acceptance, “Very well, if that’s all agreed I’ll make all the necessary apologies and arrangements with Sherlock’s school and your University John, thank you”, he nodded to John in acknowledgment, “ it shouldn’t take more than a day or two to arrange”.

They kept Sherlock overnight, for observation. He protested of course, only placated when the doctor agreed to let John stay with him, heavily influenced by Mycroft. “Sleep with me”, Sherlock said, the room dark now with the overhead lights out, just the dim orange glow from a lamp on the bedside table casting shadows across his face. And John didn’t argue this time, ignoring the doctor inside for once as he clambered onto the bed and lay down, his back to Sherlock’s chest, the way he loved it, not minding when Sherlock tossed back the covers and pushed a leg between his thighs, nuzzling contentedly into the back of his neck. Sherlock slept well for once, doped up on Codeine, John not so much, too hot as usual and disturbed every time the young nurse came to wake him, a necessary precaution for a head trauma, but thankfully she passed no comment on the fact they were sharing the bed.

~*~

“Come _on_ John, surely you must be ready by now?”

Sherlock was restless, and bored, never a good combination, and John was making it worse. He’d been ready for ages, his bags packed, a suitcase and a backpack, since the night before and Greg had dropped him off in the van two and a half hours ago on his way to work. It was now ten o’ clock. Now John was being interminably slow and it was torture, so he gritted his teeth and hung out the window again with his fourth cigarette just one drag away from the filter-tip. He’d decided to give rollies a try, the theory being it took longer to set-up so he’d smoke less. It hadn’t worked.

“You came early”, said John, popping his head round the bathroom door and releasing a cloud of steam, “and I told you the train was at twelve so you could’ve had a bit extra kip”.

“On my own? What the hell would be the point in that? You should’ve just let me stay last night then I wouldn’t have been as horny as fuck when I got here.”

He stubbed out the butt on the window sill and hopped down, brushing stray ash off his jeans onto the carpet below. John scowled from the doorway, and emerged, clad in a towel hair still wet, in a cloud of deodorant and shampoo from his second shower of the morning.

That was his fault, John had looked so delicious in just his pyjama trousers packing his things, bending over to pick things up off the floor and presenting his arse – how the hell was Sherlock supposed to ignore that? So the pants had come off, yanked down unceremoniously after an ambitious rugby-tackle, and he’d sucked him, then wanked over his chest, right there on the bedroom floor with John’s hands hovering uncertainly at the crown of his head, still wary of the neat row of stitches at the hairline.

You couldn’t even see them much, his hair flopped down to cover the wound, and besides they were coming out soon, Mycroft had made arrangements at a clinic in John’s home town for Friday morning, two more days.

“Oh no…hands off you arse”, John backed away, hands raised defensively, to warn him away. He flopped on the freshly made bed instead and lay on his back with his knees up, watching John dress. It was a nice view, but a little disappointing to see the goods packed away so soon. Who knew when he might get to play with them again.

“Tell me…were you actually taking the piss about the sleeping arrangements, because I’ll be climbing the fucking walls after a week”.

“I don’t know Sherlock…I’ve told you…I can’t just spring it on her and be like –‘hey mum, by the way that noise you might here in the night is your son being fucked up the arse by his seventeen year old gay boyfriend’, she might pass out or something”.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing”, he answered with a sigh, crossing his arms behind his head and momentarily closing his eyes, “but which bit would bother her most – the fucking, or the fact that I’m still at school and technically not an adult?....And you call me the drama queen”, Sherlock huffed.

He curled over onto his side to face him, and stretched out yawning. Sleep had eluded him last night, another annoying side-effect of no John in his bed, the level of co-dependency since the attack ramping up exponentially. His own weakness was a constant annoyance.

“Sherlock, you do realise you’ve got come on your jeans?”

He hadn’t, but it wasn’t a big deal, so he sucked the end of his finger to make it wet and scrubbed at the offending stain.

“You see, _this_ ”, said John incredulous pointing at the coin sized damp patch on the top of his thigh, “is why I’m bloody well bricking it Sherlock, you’re not exactly subtle are you?”

“I’m deeply offended John”, he said, rising from the bed in one graceful move to catch John in a hug, he kissed the frown on his face until it softened and was reciprocated with a degree of enthusiasm, “Anyway”, he said, breaking away, satisfied, “Mum’s love me, I’m charming”.

The train journey was dull in the extreme, punctuated at intervals by a flare of panic rising from his gut, it squeezed at his chest and made his breath stutter at the gaping black hole in his memory, the blank space where time had skipped over and moved on without him. It was supposed to have come back by now, according to the false reassurance from the doctor who signed the paperwork for his discharge, that with rest and time the chances he would remember were high, the likelihood of complete obliteration statistically negligible.

Physical exertion was to be avoided for the immediate days following, and so he had spent an excruciating five days in bed every night at home alone, texting John back and forward well into the early hours until one or both of them had fallen asleep. That was invariably John. He would get out of bed then, and spend the remainder of the midnight hours chain-smoking and researching retrograde amnesia.

John shot him a worried look from time to time and he would turn away, stare out of the window at the fields rushing by and the back streets of various villages and towns, feeling a light touch to the back of his arm or thigh, the extent of the physical contact acceptable in the broad light of day on public transport. It wasn’t enough, not even close.

He could never admit to John just how close he had got to the edge. On the third night back, unable to sleep with the fear closing in he’d been so fucking close to bailing and contacting Wiggy for a little help-mate, just an eighth or a wrap, with the primary objective to get off his tits for an hour or so, he’d been pacing the kitchen in his underwear when Greg had come in from work. As tired as he was, Greg had stayed up with him, called out for pizza and spent the rest of the night playing draughts and chess until Sherlock fell asleep around six on the living room sofa. He’d woken up at ten with a cheese headache and dry throat, but calmer, and they’d both agreed to keep it between themselves.

The danger night, once a regular occurrence, had made an unwelcome reappearance.

“You okay?”

“Hmm?”, he looked up, his head had been lolling a little against the window, the vibrations from the train tracks running up the glass and making his skull rattle. Maybe it would shake the truth free, it had to be worth a try.

“You were humming to yourself”, John said, “and you’re gripping my hand so tight I can feel the bones rubbing together”.

“Shit, sorry”. He let go and sat up, scrubbing his hands across his face while John massaged the life back into his crushed and numb fingers. He caught the curious gaze of a woman across from them pretending to read her Dan Brown while surreptitiously watching, so he smiled broadly and kissed John’s cheek, settling to nuzzle down into his shoulder in preference to cold hard glass. She tutted and he smirked. Nosy old bitch.

“I was just thinking”, he sighed, stifling a yawn, the lack of sleep telling at last after several days of intermittent insomnia.

“Anything yet?”, John asked, trying to disguise the note of hope in his voice this time, not wanting to pressurise.

There were still so many things to talk about, John’s almost-fight with Victor, the cleaner, the missing cameras and the doctored images on the hotel’s own system, and everything crashed round in his head on a loop, mixed up threads and no idea which one to pull first. He knew what would help, but that was out of the question for now.

“Nope”.

There was no need to explain thank god, John knew what was on his mind every minute of every day because he thought of it too, near constantly, the guilt of not knowing consuming them both in subtly different ways, and so John shrugged, and rooted in his pocket for some loose change as the lady with the trolley passed by. He bought overpriced Quaver’s and some M&M crispies and pushed them wordlessly across the plastic table towards him, smiling contentedly as Sherlock in silent appreciation wolfed down every single bite.

“We should leave it”, said John, “not try and force it, these next few days while we’re here. Let’s just relax and treat it like a holiday, it’s my birthday tomorrow for god’s sake, and you can piss yourself laughing while I die of embarrassment coming out to my mum, because there’s no way I’m sleeping on my own again tonight”.

~*~

“You have got to be fucking kidding me”.

They were standing in John’s bedroom, bags and cases on the floor by the door and coats still on having come straight up as soon as the taxi they’d taken from the station had dropped them off. John’s mum was out, still at the office where she worked part-time, while Thursday to Saturday she worked as a massage therapist at a beauty spa in town. She’d left a message on the door of the fridge pinned with a magnet from a holiday to Portsmouth, it said she’d found some spare bedding and sheets and that she’d leave it to them to pump the mattress up. The aforementioned travesty lay spread on the carpet, deflated, a wrinkled mound of pvc, like the world’s crappiest bouncy castle, with a nozzle attachment on top and a rusty old foot pump.

“I am not sleeping on that thing…how the hell does this even work?”

Sherlock knelt down on the carpet beside it and held up the nozzle, lifting the plastic air bed at the corner to look for a corresponding attachment and found it bore no more than a passing resemblance to the weird plastic funnel in his hand.

“Give it here”, John said, kneeling down to join him and taking it out of his hand, “Mike slept on this last summer when his grandma broke her hip and his mum said she had to have his bedroom…I think I can remember how it works”.

Sherlock left him to it and sat on the bed instead. John’s bed, a single bed with a stripped pine frame and blue checked covers, the mattress soft and lumpy from years of wear. The room itself was fairly small, not more than ten foot square with a desk in the front of the window and a wardrobe on the wall by the door, the bed lay along the left hand side and the air bed took up the rest of the available floor space.

It was almost impersonal in its stark appearance. It could have belonged to anyone, so unnaturally neat and tidy, the football posters above the bed hung so straight he must have used a spirit level, books in neat order on a shelf by the desk, but nothing overtly personal, nothing to tell you this space belonged to John Watson. It was obvious why, well to Sherlock anyway. John had switched off when his dad had died, emotionally, apart from the visceral anger that would surface from time to time he’d detached himself, no longer sure what he should do or who he was, scared and confused that he didn’t fit in anymore.

They were both a bit broken, in their own peculiar way.

It was weirdly comforting.

“What _are_ you doing?”, he laughed, attention drawn back to John madly pumping up and down with one foot and huffing with exertion after minutes, the sweat already glistening on his brow.

“Making your bed…just for appearance sake”, he added hurriedly seeing the scowl on Sherlock’s face, “I don’t really expect you to sleep on it, that is if you don’t mind bunking up…sorry, it’s a bit small”.

“Well seeing as I’m planning on spending most of the time on top of you…or under you…I can’t see it being much of a problem”.

“Ah right, so you’re going to flip for my birthday?”

“Definitely….it’s only fair I take the strain…you look worn out, in fact,” Sherlock smiled, shucking off his jacket and pulling his t-shirt off over his head, dumping it on the floor, “while we have the place to ourselves why don’t we….test it out?”.

John took about two seconds to decide. He bent to quickly plug the bed so the air already in it couldn’t escape and tripped across the top in his socks, the surface undulating wildly, not yet filled to capacity. The single bed, the real one, groaned in protest at the weight of two bodies when he pressed Sherlock back to straddle him, his own clothes joining the others in a heap on the floor leaving them both stripped to the waist in just jeans, already achingly hard. Sherlock stretched his arms above his head and arched his back, hips lifting automatically with the shift in posture, all the better to press his dick into John’s and make him groan. It worked.

There was a sweet sense of urgency to it, the way John bent to kiss him then, pressing down while Sherlock spread his legs to let John lie between rutting frantically still half-clothed the roughness of the denim hitting all the right spots almost painful at the sensitive head of his cock as John’s tongue invaded his mouth. Not that he gave a damn, after five days of feeling like shit and John walking on eggshells around him Sherlock would take what he could get, there’d be plenty of time later for proper fuck, but for now a dry hump would do nicely.

The frame creaked madly with the motion, the unmistakeable rhythmic squeak of bodies engaged in sexual activity, the sound you dreaded as a child, clamping hands or pillows to innocent ears to block out the thump, thump, thump of a headboard on the wall in your parents room. He grasped John’s arse, bucking up hard into him and thinking about how later he would take him again, what he’d thought about so much all week, his cock inside John’s hot, tight hole thrusting like a piston until his balls tightened and he came, hard, inside him, no condom, enveloped by his own warm, wet release.

“Fuck”, he stuttered, burying his head in John’s neck and biting down on his lip, as he came, “Sorry”.

“You’re kidding me? Don’t be sorry, when do you ever say sorry?”, John said, rolling off him to wedge his body between Sherlock and the wall, “it’s as hot as fuck actually, that I could do that to you….you were gone there for a minute though…what you thinking about?”

“You on your knees with your arse in the air”, he said with a slight grimace at the feel of the cooling sticky mess slowly seeping through the front of his jeans, Christ it was ages since that had happened, a direct reflection of John’s undeniable hotness, and the fact that now he was emotional wreck.

“Yeah right”, said John with a grin, “That would do it…it is a cute one, if I do say so myself”.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave John’s balls a squeeze as punishment, smirking at the strangled moan as he squirmed, caught between slapping Sherlock’s hand away and begging for more. In the end it wasn’t a choice. The begging would have to wait.

“JOHN!”

The sound of a door banging closed below and the bellow of a female voice, his mum home from work made them spring apart almost guiltily, Sherlock half-rolling onto the floor at the same time as John attempted to clamber over him. With an “oof”, he fell to the carpet, John sprawled across his legs as each tried to rise at the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

John placed a warning hand on his arm whispering “It’s okay, she won’t come in”, just as a tentative tapping sounded at the bedroom door.

“John?”

“Yeah mum?” John bristled at his side, the note of tension clear in his voice, wondering if this was it, ten minutes through the door and outed in the most painfully obvious way caught half naked on the floor with an erection. Sherlock half wished she would just barge in and have done with it, end the charade before it began, but he had to admit there was a little frisson of excitement to be had in sneaking around, something rather lacking in his previous encounters, but it wasn’t his choice to make this time.

“Ah good, I thought I heard something…have you managed with the bed all right? If Sherlock doesn’t like it there’s the fold-out chair from Harriet’s room?”

“Er no mum, we’re fine, just a bit grubby off the journey, we’ll just get changed and come down, okay?”

Sherlock stifled his giggles as John held his breath, waiting for her to walk away again, eyes wide at the flicker of the door handle which she must have her hand on at the other side, poised to make an entrance but thinking better of it. The handle flicked once as it was released and she moved away. John let out the breath he’d been holding and with a punch, lightening quick and deadly accurate delivered a textbook deadarm.

“Arse. If she’d walked in on us, god…..no tops on and you with a wet patch, it’s kind of obvious”.

“Best get it over with soon then”, Sherlock said, rubbing at the top of his arm and then standing up to undo his belt and unabashedly pull his pants and jeans off. John nipped out to the bathroom down the landing and came back with a small damp hand-towel handing it to him so he could clean the worst of the mess off. It would do for now but he’d need a shower later. While he fished for clean clothes John disappeared again, and re-emerged minutes later looking horrified with his zip part way done and the flushed pink cheeks he always had after a quick, hard wank. Not quite the reaction one would expect.

“Problem?”

“You could say that”.

“Not you mother?”

“Nope…warm though…sister”.

“And? I was under the impression she knew about us…well I know she’s pissed off we’re back together but….what the hell is wrong with you?”

John sat on the edge of the bed , deathly pale, “She heard us…she fucking heard us, she was in the whole time, her bedroom next door, the sounds you were making Sherlock, you do tend to get a bit vocal”.

“You’ve never complained before”.

“Yeah but my sister wasn’t bloody well listening then was she …and she heard us having sex?”

“Yes, but sex with our clothes on…mostly….Do you really want her to imagine you’re some sort of innocent virgin John?”

“No…I mean yes, fucking yes, of course I do…shit, what now?”

Sherlock stretched and yawned. The answer was obvious to him, do it, tell his mother now, it shouldn’t be a problem, Harry was out and his mother had accepted that by all accounts, so just why was John so afraid to do the same? He wasn’t ashamed, this wasn’t a phase, it was real, as real as it was ever likely to get, for both of them.

“Let’s just go down, introduce me to your mum and let me charm the pants off her, and when she finds out we’re fucking, she’ll already like me so much she won’t care either way”.

“How did you do it, if you think it’s so easy…did you just blurt it out one day?”.

“I didn’t have to, my mother knew anyway, but if I had she would have just said, ‘that’s nice dear, as long as you’re having fun dear, even if she’d walked in on me swinging from the fucking chandeliers….and no, she hasn’t,…walked in on me, in case you were wondering…yet”.

Thank god for Mycroft for paving the way in that respect, although Sherlock had lost count of the times he’d caught his brother in flagrante, as it were, because Mycroft had been a much bigger tart than he’d ever admit to before Greg.

John’s mum was in the kitchen when they went down, the kettle had just finished boiling and she poured the steaming water carefully into three lilac mugs, a pyramid teabag in each. She was small, like him, slim with dyed blonde hair, lank and greying at the roots that signalled a re-style long overdue. There was an air of resignation about her, as if she’d given up a long time ago, undernourished and pinched, prematurely aged but no more than forty-five, the signs of a person who no longer cared about their own appearance or physical wellbeing. But her eyes were soft and kind, that same deep, hypnotic, navy blue.

“Is tea okay Sherlock ?” she said as they walked through the door.

He nodded and she smiled in answer, John automatically heading to the fridge to fetch milk, and grab the sugar from the counter alongside it. He plopped down on a kitchen stool and handed Sherlock a teaspoon that he’d plucked from the draining board. It was a scene of relaxed familiarity, people who knew each other so well, so in synch, the need to vocalise the small things, minimal.

It was a far cry from his own distant, elderly mother, now in her sixties, another generation entirely, continually perplexed by the antics of her wild and uncontrollable youngest son.

He’d been a late baby, a happy little accident mistaken at first for the onset of menopause, she was forty eight, and instead of shrivelled ovaries and the end of the monthly blight, she got Sherlock, every squalling, red-faced, eight pounds seven ounce part of him, conceived the night of a champagne reception at Kensington Palace. She’d been mildly inebriated ever since.

“So” Mrs Watson said, when the tea was made, pointing the way through to the living room and ushering Sherlock into a soft white armchair in front of the fireplace. John sat back on the arm of the sofa with his knees drawn up while his mother tutted with a mix of fondness and mild disapproval, an expression born of repetition apparently. He was calmer now, thank god.

“How did you boys meet, do you study together or live in the same building or something?, come on I’m dying to know how you’ve managed to replace Mike Stamford after all these years”. She sipped her tea and glanced between them, curious, until she finally settled on Sherlock.

How to answer? Mike Stamford had never had an insatiable need to touch her son’s cock after all. Something innocuous then: “Let’s say it was more a mutual appreciation of music”, Sherlock said, levelling his gaze at her, unfazed, “I’m actually still in school”.

His age shouldn’t matter, it was less than two years, but he was thinking in terms of relationships while she still thought he was just a friend, even so it should still be irrelevant.

“I can’t say I’m surprised” she answered, “You might be tall, but you look very young, but I’m still not sure I get it…John?” She turned away from him then, aware the guest was unfairly bearing the brunt of her scrutiny and addressing her son instead.

John looked uncomfortable again and took a large gulp of still too hot tea before he answered, shooting Sherlock a nervous glance.

“We met at a concert, Sherlock was playing the bass and I was in the audience…I was there with Mike, the first Monday of term”.

“It’s good to make friends outside your own circle”, she said wisely, “I did worry you would just stick with Mike….you wouldn’t believe it Sherlock, those two were inseparable, but then you know, high school happened and girls and they drifted a bit, especially when John met Sarah…”, she paused for a second and looked thoughtful, “but I was pleased when they decided to apply to the same University”, she finished with a wistful smile.

John was squirming now. He hated any mention of Sarah, Sherlock knew that, especially in front of him, (not that he cared, as Sarah was lacking somewhat in one important respect).

“Shit mum, why don’t you bring out the humiliating baby photos while you’re busy divulging my life story”.

John was embarrassed and Sherlock sympathised, it was shit to still be in, and he knew not everyone’s parents were as tolerant of their child’s sexuality as his was. If you could call indifference, tolerance, that is.

“Language John”.

“Sorry”, he mumbled, looking suitably chastened.

“Are you going out tonight? Harriet is on at the Forester’s, I’m sure she’d still serve you as long as Sherlock stays back from the bar, I think there might even be a band on”.

“Maybe, can we go now?” John said, a little quickly, clearly keen to be off now they’d at least exchanged pleasantries and acknowledged her presence. Sherlock felt uneasy, in a way he couldn’t quite grasp, there was a sadness there, a distance, not through a lack of love between them, but something else.

She sighed and leaned back in her seat, dismissing them both with a flick of her hand, “Yeah go on, bugger off, I know, embarrassing mother, blah, blah, blah, but make sure you finish that bed before you go, you can’t use the foot pump properly if you come in pissed from the pub…it was nice to meet you Sherlock”, she added with a soft smile, which he returned, before closing her eyes, clearly worn out after a long day at work.

“Sorry”, said John, leaning back against the door, safely shut behind them, once more in the sanctuary of the bedroom, “she does go on a bit, and you know, it was just me and Mike for years, and she did love Sarah, Christ they were always nattering away over cuppa’s in the kitchen even when I wasn’t there…”.

“It was nothing, I think I got off lightly, you were kidnapped by Mycroft, remember?” Sherlock said, sitting down carefully on the edge of the desk and beckoning him over, “and really”, he added, sliding his arms round John’s waist as he stepped between his legs, “the Sarah thing, forget it…because I really don’t think she was the one you were wanking over in the bathroom just now” .

The blush was rather gratifying, a warm pink flush that crept up John’s chest and neck, mottled in appearance. He traced the skin with his tongue, testing the rising heat beneath the surface and sucked down hard enough to make him gasp but not to leave a lasting mark. He wouldn’t be that cruel. Yet.

“…you win in the mad relative stakes, hands down” John said, with a contented sigh, pressing in a little more.

“I haven’t met Harry yet though”.

“True…but I’m not too sure if she’s ready to meet you…not after ….what she heard, and sorry for not telling mum yet too…I’m a fucking coward I know…. maybe we should head down to the pub and throw a little alcohol into the mix and I’ll drop it when we get back, yeah?..... Shall we finish this thing?” John pulled away reluctantly and poked the airbed with his toe and if anything, it looked flatter than it had when he’d started.

“Fuck it”, said Sherlock, “why bother? If she won’t come in anyway just leave it, it’s not as if we’re actually going to need it”, he walked to the door and grabbed his case, dragged it across the floor to the bed and unzipped, flipping it open, “smart or casual?” he asked, hoping for the latter because he’d only brought one shirt for John’s actual birthday, not knowing what had been planned.

“Really? You have to ask? Come on, it’s hardly The Kings Road around here….whatever you don’t mind getting soaked in beer or me ripping off you later”, John grinned and grabbed a towel from the end of his bed heading towards the door and the bathroom. Sherlock picked a t-shirt in faded grey, one of three, almost identical and pulled it on.

~*~

It was still quite early when they left the house, the early autumn sky still suffused with the orange glow of a sun that had yet to set as they walked the short distance to the high street pub. John’s mum had made dinner, just a light plate of pasta and a shop-bought sauce, but he ate it, just to be polite and to line his stomach for the night to come. Mid-meal the front door slammed shut, Harry on her way out without even saying goodbye. Sherlock knew why. She didn’t quite trust herself not to give the game away in front of her mum.

John’s street, South Grove, was a cul-de-sac of ex-council housing most of them privately owned, semi-detached homes in a neat horseshoe shape with a large back garden and a garage at the side. Nice, homely, in a way his own house never was or ever could be, where nobody knew who their neighbours were, much less talk to them. Here it was different, nearly everyone they passed on the way nodding in acknowledgement or greeting John by name, but he could see the problem in it too. When everyone knew everyone gossip spread like wildfire and nothing could be secret for long, add to that the certainty that people saw you in a particular way making it doubly difficult to break from that mould. Accept your fate or leave, because there was little chance you would be allowed to change, not here. It bore a strange resemblance to the incestuous public school circuit in that respect. He should know – once a slut always a slut and all that, as someone, somewhere seemed determined to remind him. Another mystery for another day, a London day.

The Forester’s stood at the junction of Arun, and Athelston Way, backing on to Bennet’s Field, a large area of parkland where John had spent much of his childhood playing football and building camps in the woods . An ordinary pub, the kind you stopped by after work for a quiet pint, or took the family to for a meal, roast dinner on a Sunday afternoon, and a kick around on the grass out back after, in other words terminally dull.

It was around eight when they got there, the walk taking longer after a detour to a stand of trees off a dirt track where John had made sure Sherlock knew just how very not straight he was now. Needless to say, it involved much sucking of cocks and fondling of testicles and absolutely no stray splashes of come on jeans this time. It was amusing to walk into the pub, seeing his hair messed up at the back and the way his t-shirt was crumpled at the front in that obvious way from the clench of Sherlock’s hand fisted tightly into the soft material. He looked untidy, and perfect, and fucked in the way that only Sherlock could tell.

What seemed like a hundred pairs of eyes turned to stare as John pushed open the inner door and sauntered into the bar area. In reality it was maybe half full, most of the tables were occupied with people two- deep lining up to pay for drinks, mostly men, and most of them over forty, people of their age thin on the ground.

“Just hang about here”, said John, and pointed to what could only be termed a ‘shelf’ that ran along the wall by the door, bar stools placed under it. He pulled one out and sat down, perching awkwardly on one with a wobbly leg and waited as John caught the attention of a girl with short hair, shaved off at the side, with multiple earrings and a tattoo of a bird on the back of her shoulder. It could only be Harry, Sherlock thought, as the family resemblance struck him yet again, short, with pretty, soft features, conventional, symmetrical, but with a self-assured aura that her mother and brother seemed to lack. She smiled at John, and peered over his shoulder, craning her neck and scowling at the sight of him, sitting, waiting there.

Sherlock knew John had phoned her, the week of the break-up and that understandably her opinion of him would be somewhat clouded by that, there would be an interesting conversation sometime soon, between them, a variation on the ‘hurt my brother and I’ll end you’ talk. He was looking forward to it.

John wandered back with two bottles of Pilsner and handed one to him. “Harry says and I quote ‘if I get the sack because of that fucking twat I’ll make you wish you’d never been born, birthday or not’, unquote”.

“Nice”, Sherlock said, grimacing at the taste of the bitter drink. He plunked it down on the shelf and the foam spewed up from within, coating his fingers and dribbling down the side of the glass. “Great”, he said, shaking them off in annoyance and wiping them off on the side of his jeans, “Did she give mine a shake on purpose or something?”

“Nah, it always does that, worse if you drink it through a straw”

“Well the hell would you drink a lager through a straw?”

“Girls do…Sarah did, never mind….any news from Mycroft yet, or Greg?” John said, tactfully changing the subject.

“No”, said Sherlock glumly. His brother had sworn he’d be kept in the loop, informed as soon as the forensics came through from the hotel room, but naturally he was concerned that Sherlock’s rampant curiosity would lead him into trouble again and so there’d been radio silence for days. Greg didn’t want him involved at all, knowing the drug scene and low-life that inhabited it almost as well as Sherlock, he’d been leaning on Mycroft to keep him away, for John’s safety he’d insisted as well as his own. It was all annoyingly reasonable. But what they wouldn’t tell, he could hack and what he couldn’t hack he could find out anyway. Maybe he should try this week, in a place where Mycroft’s influence had yet to penetrate. John had a laptop, there was a family pc, it could be a possibility.

“We can piece together what we have, but any prints from the room are likely to be useless, it’s a hotel so god only knows how many people go in and out on a regular basis”, he said, “and if they wore gloves, then the whole thing falls down right there”.

“Would his prints be there?”

“By ‘ _him_ ’ you mean Victor? Yes, he touched the handle, the door when he came in, nothing else I don’t think, it was seconds John…I told him to fuck off and he left, Mycroft spoke to him and then you served him drinks at the bar, after that who knows…but honestly, I really don’t think he’d do that, smack me on the head…he just…wouldn’t”.

It was frustrating. He got the jealousy, the insecurity, really he did, he would feel the same in John’s position after what he’d done, but he just couldn’t give him the answer John was looking for to justify his own actions that night, not with things as they were, with the hole in his memory, a nameless, faceless spectre that haunted him constantly.

“Change the subject?”, said John, mindful of what a flashpoint that infuriating man still was. From the second he’d reappeared, his presence seemed to permeate everything, but he would not let him taint what he had with John, not now, not ever.

“Yeah please…so, nineteen tomorrow, how about that?”

“Yeah, how about that Johnny boy?” said a soft female voice, clapping a hand to each of their shoulders, hard, her fingers digging in to Sherlock just a little too long to be a casual, friendly gesture. John turned in his seat stretching up a little to accept the kiss on the cheek as Harry draped her arms around his neck from behind.

“Are you off now?”, he asked with a smile.

“On a break, ten minutes, just enough time for a smoke and a piss and to come and see my gorgeous little brother and his twat of a boyfriend”, she glared at Sherlock and pressed another kiss to the back of John’s neck.

“I’m delighted to finally meet you”, Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes a little at the possessive way she held John to her, specifically meant, he knew, to draw John further away from him.

“Don’t be” she snapped, “I haven’t even fucking started with you”.

The ‘hurt my brother and I’ll kill you routine’, how utterly predictable, Sherlock thought. He would try, for John though, even if a meant an Oscar worthy performance. He drank some more.

“Harry for fuck’s sake”, John hissed, “ Can you just be nice and not do this here?”.

“Are you the one that cheated? No…I didn’t think so”, she went on defiantly, ignoring John’s frustrated look. Sherlock was mildly impressed by her balls, but she was missing one vital piece of information, he’d grown up with Mycroft Holmes and a little intimidation was never going to work on him.

“Listen lovely”, she said with a final peck on John’s cheek, I’m just popping out for a cheeky fag, unless either of you care to join me?” She looked pointedly at Sherlock for a second before turning away, and headed off outside leaving a lingering smell of apples in her wake.

“Okay”, John turned to him, “You’ve got that look on your face like a cat toying with a bloody mouse, so please don’t tell me you’re going out there, I really don’t want to be mopping up blood tonight”.

“Oh, I don’t think that was a choice do you? I thought it was more of a summons” said Sherlock, draining the awful dregs from the bottle and hopping down off the stool. “Don’t worry I’ll play nice even if she won’t”, he added, and John just shook his head, the indecision of whether to come or stay seated, playing across his face. He hovered, and sat back down again.

“Alright, I’ll wait here… but no biting and scratching okay?”

Harry was sitting at a table, long and wooden with a bench on either side in what would, in the summer months be the beer garden. Now it was simply damp and cold, seeping through the seat of his jeans as he sat down beside her. She offered him a ciggy from her packet but he shook his head, taking the metal tin from his pocket and fishing out one he’d pre-rolled in a fit of boredom in John’s flat this morning. She raised an eyebrow.

“It’s just tobacco, plain, boring, completely non-hallucinogenic, run-of-the-mill Golden Virginia. I may be many things but a stoner is not one of them”, he said, letting it dangle, casually between his lips.

“Glad to hear it”, she said, “but if that was your only fault we wouldn’t be out here about to have this conversation would we?”

“Quite”, he lit the cigarette from the end of hers and handed it back, exhaling a plume of smoke into the night.

“I love my brother”, she began, taking a breath to gather herself, the sleeves of her jumper tucked over her hands like mittens against the cold, “Him and mum are all I have”, she went on, staring off across the carpark into space, “and so I hurt when he hurts and it’s the same for him. I was pleased you know, that night when he texted me, all excited and confused cause he’d seen some boy in a crowd that made him question himself”, she turned to look at him fully then, eyes a little glassy with a sheen of tears, “It was a long time coming, and so I told him to go for it, encouraged it because Sarah was a dead loss, anyone with a pair of eyes could see he wasn’t into her even at the start, but I already knew the real reason even if no-one else did, it was always just a smokescreen”.

She paused and took a drag, tilting her head back to blow it out again and wiped her sleeve across her eyes, “But you just had to go and fuck it up though, didn’t you?”

Sherlock stayed silent. She needed to vent and he wanted to listen and so he waited while she smoked the cigarette down to the filter and lit another. Chain-smoking. At least they had that in common.

“I so wanted to hate you after the other week, I did, I still do…you crushed him you know…broke his fucking heart to pieces…some skinny little posh kid with a shitty attitude and a raging drug habit who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants”.

“I know”, he said, shifting to straddle the bench and leaning on his elbow with his free hand, “You’re right I’m a cock, I admit it, but I broke it off for a bloody good reason, for his own good…at least I thought so at the time”.

He crushed the spent butt in his fingertips and flicked it away across the carpark.

“But you were wrong?” she said, standing again, the break-time over, but reluctant to leave before they’d finished this, much like him, so they hung back, leaning gently side by side against the table.

“Obviously I was wrong Harry or I’d hardly be standing here now, would I? But John’s no fool, and I know how damn lucky I was to get that second chance…did you know I let him punch me first?....stood there and told him to do it….and he did”.

Sherlock still though it one of the best decisions he’d ever made, unorthodox but cathartic, for both of them.

She nodded thoughtfully, then shook her head and laughed, “That sounds like my John….I remember when he was younger, when dad was still alive…he was so small compared to the other boys his age, and there was this one kid, Mark Lowther I think his name was, he used to call him nancy boy and a fucking little queer before any of them knew what it meant – I mean he was only about ten or eleven, and Jesus Christ he battered that kid, just went for him… _fists of fury_ we used to call him. No-one ever tried a thing with him after that. It’s funny, not a single person really thought he was gay, it was all just words, kids…but I wonder if he did know, deep down, even then”, she turned to look at him, “do you think so?”

“I don’t know”, Sherlock shrugged. He shivered a little in the breeze and pulled his jacket in tighter around himself, “Maybe…I knew when I was nine, that I didn’t like girls that way, but Mycroft was sixteen and he’d already had a few boyfriends around the house so I never really questioned it, that it was something out of the ordinary that is. It just felt normal, me, the way I was supposed to be. I never had to come out because I was never ‘in’ if you know what I mean”.

“Have you fucked yet?”, she burst out suddenly, bringing him up short and breaking his train of thought.

He stared at her, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, while he wondered just how much he would have to push to either alienate completely or to bring her onside. She was a Watson, so he decided to press the sore spot and brace for impact. 

“Please…. we’re _way_ past that…we did it on the first night…your brother is quite the little slut surprisingly…he was gagging for it”.

“Too much info Sherlock….why the hell did I just ask that?”, she said with a squeal, and clamped her hands over her ears, laughing suddenly, loud and genuine. He’d judged right.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you, you know”, she said in a rush, biting her lip.

“I wouldn’t expect you to…. I haven’t forgiven myself yet”.

“Has he told mum?”

“No…bottled it…not the right time…I don’t know”, he sighed, “but we’re sleeping together tonight regardless, I mean, can you really see me on a fucking air bed on the floor?” 

“No!”, she laughed again, you’re far too big of diva to slum it, I can tell…Oh god…please tell him to wait till I’m home, there’s no way I’m missing out on the big reveal…mum is going to have a fit, two gay kids, fucking priceless”.

“How wonderfully sympathetic of you”.

“Yeah, well, I had to do it, time for golden balls to man up for a change…he’s a bit of a mummy’s boy on the quiet”.

“Why don’t you tell him that yourself?”, he said, glancing towards the side door they’d left from to see a tousled blond head just rounding the corner.

His heart skipped a little. Why did it still do that when John walked into a room, was that what it did to you, love? Sherlock had no idea. He’d never felt like this before and it was all so hideously wonderful.

“Having fun out here?”, John strode towards them, hands in pockets and shoulders hunched, the night turned much colder than they’d thought, “ I got bored waiting, knew you'd be ages, and I couldn't stand the pitying looks any more for Johnny no-mates....so?", he said looking nervously between them both, "Pistols at dawn is it?"

“You can keep him for now I suppose….I still think you’re mad though…Just keep the noise to a minimum tonight, will you?”, Harry said, heading back to the pub, the air of hostility significantly less now, she even spared him a wry grin on the way past, “Oh, and if mum asks, I’ve decided to stay out tonight, at Clara’s, I really don’t think I could handle the sex noises, sorry…. so you’ll just have to wait for the birthday present, mine anyway, I don’t know what mum got”.

She disappeared through the door, laughing at John, slack-jawed and cringing with embarrassment.

“Did I just pass or something?”, Sherlock said, laughing. 

“You mean going by the fact that you’re still in possession of all your teeth?” said John,” Yeah, I think you did, fancy another?”

“Another what?”

“Funny Sherlock”.

~*~

“So, are you going to lay off Sherlock now?” Harry spun around, bottles in hand, the condensation slowly dripping down onto her hand, she passed them over and wiped her hands on her jeans with a sigh. 

“I still think he’s a prick John, he’s a druggy and a cheat and I still wouldn’t trust him if I were you”.

“Good job you’re not me then”.

He’d expected this, from the second he caught sight of her face upstairs, peering round the bedroom door with a look of disgust as he made his way into the bathroom for a damp flannel. But before that too, on the night he confided that Sherlock had cheated, and again on the day he ended it, told John they shouldn’t be together anymore. It would take a lot more than a smoke in a carpark to win her round.

“Just be careful, John”

“I’m always careful”.

She frowned, casting him a worried look as she turned away, the bar fairly busy now as the evening progressed. She was only looking out for him, and he hated having to lie, but the less she knew about the past few weeks the better, it would only make her worry more and make things worse for Sherlock.

“She hates me”, said Sherlock, taking the proffered bottle, with a scowl.

“Yeah, but she’s a very angry person, she hates everyone…hey don’t screw your face up like that”.

“This is truly disgusting John, chosen for the sole purpose of reinforcing your straight credentials, which you don’t have any more by the way, taking it up the arse sort of shot that horse in the face".

“Hey, I’m not trying to….well, maybe I am”, he conceded, looking around.

It was just this place though, in London it was easy, anonymous, but here, shit, that bloke over there for instance, he lived two doors down, and the one beside him, Mike’s dad’s best mate who always referred to anyone gay as a ‘shirt-lifter’. Sherlock didn’t deserve this, he swore he’d do anything for him, die for him probably, but hold his hand down the local pub – now that was the deal-breaker?

Harry should hate him, not Sherlock.

“So your plan is to drink yourself into oblivion and maintain a suitable manly distance between us at all times?”

Sherlock looked amused as he glanced around, doing his deduction thing on the locals probably, which would be fine if he’d keep it to himself. “That man over there”, he began, the one with the football shirt two sizes too small and the beginnings of a comb-over? He’s having an affair with a member of staff, someone who works here…” Sherlock craned his neck, searching around the assembled patrons and settled, smiling smugly, “The older barmaid, forties, dressed like a teenager, she clocks off in a bit, and his car is parked out back”.

“How the hell…you really are just guessing this time you cock”.

“Nope”.

John watched open-mouthed as the bloke drained his glass and rose, wincing a little with a newspaper strategically placed across his crotch, hand surreptitiously adjusting himself. The barmaid whispered to Harry, served the next customer and excused herself, leaving discreetly by the back way.

“He went to the loo, before, he’s married, ring, but he came out with a box of condoms …she was chatting to him when you were buying drinks and you know I’ve got very good ears”.

“Do you ever stop looking…at other people? This thing you do, it’s why so many people find you….I dunno….a bit scary?”

“No, I’m just observant, nosey, but you treat it like It’s some sort of magic trick…it gets you hard…you would bend me right over this table if you could…wouldn’t you?”

“That mouth is going to get you in trouble one day”.

“Oh, I think it already has”.

That was true. He licked his lips, tasting the foam from the beer and running his tongue over slowly, Sherlock transfixed at the movement as he always was, oral fixation he’d said. Good, that was both of them.

“Who’s that?”, Sherlock inclined his head to the right, and John turned, there was a bloke about mid-thirties talking to his sister and he could tell by her face she was less than impressed. Harry could hold her own though, she’d had years of practice giving blokes the brush off.

“Lance…Mercer or something, he works in my mum’s office, why?”

“No reason” Sherlock said with a shrug, “Just me being nosey again”.

“Give that here”. John snatched the bottle from Sherlock’s hand and pressed it to his lips, sucking down the ice cold beer in three long pulls before smacking the bottle down hard on the wooden table. “You drink too slow” he said with a grin, “and we’re going back home…now”.

He wasn’t drunk, well maybe just a little John thought as they stumbled up the street, Sherlock propping him up as he fumbled in his jeans for his key. The house was in darkness. They entered through the back door in the garden, plates from the meal they’d had earlier stacked on the kitchen table in an untidy pile, the half-drunk cups of tea alongside them. Mum had a busy life with too much to do, and not quite enough of herself to spread around. Something had to give. A small glass tumbler stood on the draining board, recently washed, clean, and a very empty wine bottle stood in the corner on the floor – it hadn’t been there when they’d left. 

They crossed to the living room, and there, slumped in the chair by the fireplace was a small hunched figure.

“Mum?” John whispered, and tip-toed across, shoving lightly on her arm to test how deeply asleep she was. He could smell it, the rich fruity scent of a dry red wine on her breath as she exhaled and curled over, burrowing further down into the soft cushions. John pulled a throw from the back of the sofa and tucked it gently around the sleeping form. 

“She does this sometimes…has a glass or two and falls asleep downstairs. It’s best just to leave her…she’ll wake up in an hour or so and put herself to bed”.

He felt sad, resigned. It was more than just sometimes, Sherlock would be able to tell, most nights more likely, maybe even daily now. John knew what the doctor had told her, his mum showed all the signs of functioning alcoholism.

She worked hard, two jobs and long hours to keep house and family ticking over, and he wasn’t around to keep it in check anymore. Because that was what John did, cared, much too much about everyone and everything.

It had been a relief to find that Harry, the one he’d worried about most, had conquered her demons to some extent due in no small measure he felt to Clara’s influence. But she was strong, a fighter like him, not like mum who’d always leaned on his dad too much for, love, money, emotional support everything. Self-reliance didn’t come naturally.

“Come on…she’ll be fine”, he said, to convince himself more than anything else. Sherlock stayed mercifully silent behind him.

John led the way up the stairs to his room holding the tips of Sherlock’s fingers loosely in his grasp, that simple closeness and contact so precious to them now. His stomach was churning, the anticipation brimming inside as he followed, tracing the curve of Sherlock's neck with his eyes and down, down, shoulders, spine, hips, arse, thighs. Fuck, he dreamed about this, every night, peeling off each item of clothing, slowly, a tease to himself to reveal each part, each inch of skin so milky white and soft, kissing, licking, biting, tasting, the warmth of the blood beneath the surface the sharp tang of salt-sweet sweat the heat and musk between his legs, intoxicating.

John shivered. He was hard, so achingly hard, cock pressed against the confines of his jeans already in the time it had taken to climb fifteen stairs.

The door opened and they stumbled inside, tripping their way across the debris on the floor, cases, clothes, the airbed deflated and dangerous now, a trap for the unwary. John climbed up, sitting up high by the pillows to make room, and Sherlock perched below him, legs dangling over the side.

“What do you want?” he asked, Sherlock’s face concealed by the darkness of the room.

“Anything…everything…you”.

Sherlock’s voice was hoarse, the longing in every shuddering breath. John leaned forward and found his lips brushing over softly, a whisper of a touch, feeling the dry scratch of chapped skin and stubble which prickled and stung, then drew away. John could hear him, see the outline of Sherlock’s body as their eyes adjusted to the gloom, the way his chest moved, rapid, heaving, the tight lines of his body, still clothed. There was rustle and swish of cotton on skin, arm flexed and raised above his head to drag the t-shirt over, John reached out and his fingers met soft down and brushed across the taut peaks of his nipples, Sherlock, so beautiful, his. He wanted. This . Now.

John pounced first before Sherlock could act, knocking the air from his lungs in a rush as he crushed him to the bed and mouthed, nipped and sucked at his neck.

“Get these off now”. He growled, dragging at the rest of Sherlock’s clothes.

“My turn I think”, Sherlock breathed in his ear, and with quick sure fingers undid the buckle on his belt and zip and shimmied John’s jeans down his hips. A tight knot of anxiety made his stomach clench. They had only done it this way that one time, after the dinner party at Sherlock’s house, and it had been good, so fucking good, but the pain, oh god the pain at first. He tensed, a little scared but in a good way at the thought of being taken, being fucked on his knees all out of control and helpless this time.

“Let me”, he said, and Sherlock drew back with a nod, watching in reverent silence while he slowly stripped his remaining clothes off. He teased it out with two thumbs hooked in the waistband of his underwear because he knew how Sherlock loved the slow reveal, that sudden pop as his cock sprang free and bounced obscenely in front of him, wet and ready. Sherlock would have made this look gorgeous, so dirty and pretty with that long graceful body and natural elegance and John could picture it, and pictured himself, how this must look to Sherlock on the other side for once.

“Touch yourself”, Sherlock said in a deep rich tone which sliced through the silence and demanded obedience. John shivered, cheeks flushed, and even though no-one could see him but Sherlock he still felt much like a filthy little slut when he wrapped his hand around his own aching cock in compliance.

Masturbation, the quiet furtive domain of the randy teenage boy on hormonal overdrive, evidenced by the pile of crusty tissues beneath the bed and the illicit jar of petroleum jelly hidden in the bottom of the sock drawer. But this, this, was so incredibly, unbearably intimate.

Sherlock looked so dangerous and dark as he watched him, as his eyes followed every slide up and down, every shift of his hips as he fucked his own hand mouth open and head tilted. They locked eyes and Sherlock smiled, then dropping to all fours he crawled behind him, so close John could feel the press of his cock at the crack of his arse hot and slightly sticky just from watching the show.

Hands pressed to his shoulders and Sherlock leaned in, “You would run, right now if you knew what was in my head, the things I want to do to you, make you do to me…I’m not safe John, never was and I never will be and you can’t trust me either because I can’t trust myself”.

They were just words, words designed to turn him on and get them both off, or were they? John wasn’t sure anymore, Sherlock was accomplished at deception, the natural born liar with a casual charm, it was too hard to see where the truth began at times. And he’d already done it to him, more than once, the drug habit, Victor, a shady past with numerous sexual partners and he had unashamedly admitted to being a complete and utter selfish bastard.

A hand pressed between his shoulder blades and pushed his body forward and he dropped down, let go of his cock and braced both hands against the mattress with his elbows locked, panting a little in anticipation. He heard the rustle of movement behind him, Sherlock, rooting in his case at the foot of the bed for lube he supposed, he wouldn’t just fuck him dry, so this was it, John steeled himself for the first stroke and press of cool slippery fingers around his hole, alien and intimidating. 

The expected push didn’t come. The tube was tossed down on the covers beside them and instead he felt the warm steady stroke of Sherlock’s palms up and down his back, soft and gentle.

“Relax John, you’re wound up so tight this won’t work…. are you sure? We don’t have to…”

“No…I’m fine, it’s just weird this way…but I want it, just do it…please” he added at the end, and wriggled to relieve the ache in his arms and thighs.

Sherlock stroked down again, smoothed along his torso and hovered over his arse for a beat, he pressed down firmly and eased his cheeks apart to expose him. John felt the warm puff of his breath and shuddered as his body jolted forward reflexively at the first touch of a tongue against his skin. Sherlock licked softly, gentle flicks, warm and wet back and forth across his hole. It felt so good, dirty and wrong and sloppy with saliva, he could feel it start to trickledown his balls, cooling when Sherlock stopped to stiffen the tip of his tongue and gentle prise him open. He was firm and warm, but yielding, the deceptively strong muscle breaching him with an ease that both shocked and shamed him. He moaned and dropped his head and shoulder to the covers, breathing in the stale, musty scent of laundry kept for much too long in a dusty cupboard, and just gave in, gave up to the push and press of a tongue up his arse, Sherlock’s tongue, in that smart pretty mouth that could cut you to the bone with a few choice words, eating him out like he was the finest delicacy on God’s earth.

He wanted to die. It would be a happy death.

Sherlock pulled back and he felt so bereft, empty and hollow and he waited, waited, twitching at the sound of the cap snapping open, knowing what it meant, what he would have any second now. There, there, fucking hell… yes. He pushed back onto the fingertip, fuelled by alcohol and far more relaxed than he thought he’d been, that initial pang of fear now gone. He started to move, slow at first, almost imperceptible little twitch of the hips back and forward. He felt Sherlock smile against the curve of his back, curled over him now with his face pressed close, holding them together as he steadily worked him open, that move all he needed to press in again with another, firmer and faster to pick up the pace. 

Sherlock loved this part when John did it, fucked himself so hard there was barely any work to do, all wet inside, the sounds he made so indecent and lewd, the squelch and suck of lubed-up fingers in his hole. He spread his legs wider, hitched his knees out to the sides and curled his toes into the covers to stop any further slide to give him more purchase, rocking back into the motion, giving in to it, but he still needed more, Sherlock’s hot smooth cock which felt so good in his mouth and in his hand, that, that, inside him.

He could see himself from this position, he peered down between his own legs to see his own aching erection jutting out straight from his body while his balls dangled full and heavy below. He could feel his cock leaking already, a bead of pre-come gathered at the head to slowly drip down to the covers below, a dark stain spreading there.

“Sherlock please”, he gasped, stomach clenched at the relentless pressure building up inside.

The fingers slipped out with a small tacky pop and he braced, muscle fluttering around nothing as Sherlock took himself in hand and positioned himself over the loosened entrance to press inside. John grunted at the first stretch, grit his teeth and bore the discomfort which wasn’t much compared to the first time, but enough to make him tense and Sherlock pause while he processed what had happened. Only the head of Sherlock’s cock had breached him, and they stilled, panting together until he gave a sign, bucking back in a silent plea for more.

Sherlock gripped his hips, his fingers pinched at the skin in a tight sure grip and then he slammed, snapping hips forward he buried himself up to the hilt in one quick rough move. John jolted forward caught unawares. His face mashed into the pillow and he scrambled back up again, breathing heavily to adjust.

“Jesus Sherlock” he panted.

“Oh god John…I just had to….too much?”

“It’s fine…just…a bit unexpected”.

Sherlock rolled his hips a little pushing back and in again and John let out a strangled moan, the delicious twist and thrust brushed right against his prostate, and he could feel it, tingles of pleasure in a direct path to the head of his cock, willing him to please god just do that again, exactly that, there, now, more, more….fuck.

The springs creaked and the frame rattled, the headboard slammed, every obvious sex-noise in all its filthy glory. Sherlock was frantic and out of breath, thighs quivering against the back of his own as John tried hard to stay upright, being fucked so hard and relentless, but not wanting it to end. The ache in his groin had grown, so desperate now to touch himself but unable to get his arm down without bringing them both down. It was torture. Sherlock slowed, hips jerking uncoordinated, and stuttered to a halt.

“Lie down” he whispered, and pressed against John’s arse to push him forward, “On your stomach, lie flat, just trust me John”.

He slid forward, and his thighs screamed in protest having been so long splayed out, his chest pressed down to the mattress, cock trapped but with the blessed promise of friction when he tried to move. Sherlock sagged down onto his back, and the added weight pressed John down further until they lay flat, one on top of the other. Sherlock stroked down the side of his face, soft and gentle and so at odds with the way they’d been fucking like animals. He nuzzled into the touch and sighed. Warm gentle kisses pressed against the back of his neck, and then he felt the lap of a tongue at the sweat that head gathered there.

Sherlock began to move, shallow thrusts softly dragging at his insides. He pushed back against him, a slow gentle rhythm, his cock rubbing on the bunched up sheets beneath his abdomen feeing Sherlock’s breath come in hot damp puffs at his ear. John stretched his arms out above his head, to ease out the cramps and the prickle of pins and needles. Sherlock stroked up the length of them and wound their fingers tightly together in a possessive grip. He felt almost dizzy, the sensation building fast with Sherlock draped all over him like this, kissing and touching and stroking and….

The realisation slammed into him then, The truth of what was happening here, right now in this bed. They weren’t fucking anymore, they weren’t having sex, they were making love.

Sherlock was making love to him.

“I love you”, he whispered it to the pillow and felt Sherlock smile into his skin in return. He let go of John’s hands and braced his palms on the mattress, raised up a little to finish this, to come. The slow burn built to gut-wrenching need within seconds.

“John…fuck John”

His arse clenched together at the first warm pulse within him. A liquid heat he could feel in the pit of his stomach. One, two harsh thrusts, then Sherlock pressed in further, as far as he could go and rode out the waves inside him. It wasn’t enough, not for him, and Sherlock, his brilliant Sherlock would know that. He hissed at the warm trickle of come on his thigh as Sherlock pulled out and gently nudged him over. He rolled on his back and Sherlock gazed down at him looking shagged –out and breathtakingly gorgeous. How did he ever get so damn lucky?

“Let me just…” Sherlock said, and John hissed yet again, as Sherlock bent down between his legs and took John’s cock into his beautiful mouth, working with tongue and lips, until saliva dripped down onto his balls and the back of his thighs. He tangled his fingers in the thick dark curls and flexed, pulling at the roots a little, not enough to hurt but enough for a warning scrape of teeth in return. He pushed down a little and Sherlock took in more and swallowed, the contractions of his throat sent John over the edge and he jerked, pumping come in thick, bitter ribbons down his throat. Sherlock held him through it, until his legs stopped shaking and his heart stopped pounding so fast, leaving John’s cock in his mouth as it softened and then pulling off with a slippery pop, head still buried between his legs.

“Come up here”, John said. So Sherlock crawled up the bed and snuggled in alongside him, half draped over his side for lack of room. It was sweaty and cramped and they stank of sweat and come and it was absolutely fucking fantastic.

“Did we just…..?” he began, not sure what to say now. Something had changed, it was obvious.

“Yes” said Sherlock, “We did …just”

“Ah, right….are you okay with that then?”

“For god’s sake shut up John”. 

They kissed for a while, just touching lips, a sweet slide of tongue so John could taste himself, a bitter tang that meant everything. They bickered too, fought over bed space and covers, Sherlock too cold and John too hot, the compromise being he had to be big spoon, with Sherlock curled contently, John’s arms wrapped tight around him. Exhausted his eyes flickered closed at last and the last thing he heard as he fell into the dark, so quiet he might have imagined the sound … 

“I love you too John”.

~*~ 

“Oh my god!....sorry, sorry, oh god sorry…I’ll just…leave this here…shit, sorry”. 

The tray she was carrying clicked down against the floorboards and the door was hastily closed again. John let out the breath he’d been holding with an audible groan, he was right royally fucked now and there was not a damn thing he could do. He listened to the sound of her retreating footsteps thumping heavily down the stairs.

“Please tell me that didn’t just happen?” he said, voice muffled into Sherlock’s chest, lips pressed to warm bare skin.

“Ah well, the cat is out of the bag now, she’s seen my bare arse with your hand on it…we could hardly have made it any clearer”, Sherlock sighed, hooked his leg a bit further over John’s hip and pulled him in, stroking over his backside in a gentle rhythm, supremely unfazed. Sometime in the night he had twisted around and they now lay face to face.

“Well we could have…made it clearer, that is”, John said.

“Yes, but I really don’t think this called for a practical demonstration do you?...Relax John…it’s done, and we won’t have to fake that no homo shit any more".

“I guess not”.

John felt like laughing, a bubble in his chest as he thought about the sight of them, wrapped around each other stark naked an untidy heap of clothes at the side of the bed in a room last reeked of sweat and sex. A neon sign announcing ‘John loves cock’ would have been more subtle. But he still had to go downstairs at some point and face everyone, he thought, the red faces and embarrassed looks.

Sherlock stirred against him, breathing into the top of his head sending goose-bumps down his neck and spine reminding him about the covers, unceremoniously kicked off during the night. He squirmed a little, finding the edge with his toes and dragging them back up again to cover them both in a warm, sweaty, slightly smelly cocoon, and found he didn’t really care that much after all.

“It’s your birthday”, Sherlock purred, right in his ear, “and the question is…should we eat that breakfast you’re mother so very kindly left or would you prefer fellatio and prostate massage?”.

His answer was lost in groan, as Sherlock took matters into his own hands, literally and lazily rolled on top of him. He dropped an arm down over the side of the bed and groped for a second, triumphantly retrieving the discarded lube. 

“I’m a bit sore Sherlock…not sure I can go that again”, he whispered, his arse smarting at the thought of going bottom again so soon.

“Don’t worry…it’s not for you”.

Sherlock raised himself enough to snap open the cap and coat the fingers of his right hand, before sliding it under the covers between them, pressing his fingers between his own arse cheeks. John could feel the warm drip of lube on his thighs as Sherlock, legs splayed across his body slowly and languorously fingered himself open. 

The noises he made, Christ . John bit his lip at the low little moans and gasps, and gazed, enraptured at the vision above him, Sherlock, propped on one arm, head bent, stomach taut and cock hard and leaking against his abdomen, thighs trembling with the effort to hold his body up. God those fingers, so long and elegant and buried up to the knuckle inside him slowly moving in and out….

Sherlock looked up, wrecked and panting, “I just had to…do this” he gasped and John grabbed his hips to steady him, because he knew what was coming, the intention all along, as Sherlock reached down with slick fingers, still steeped in the warmth of his own insides and grasped the base of John cock. He held his breath as Sherlock braced and slowly, almost gracefully slid down, a hand on John’s hip as a warning not to thrust in yet. It was perfect, so hot, so tight, no wonder Sherlock had craved this from him last night. Sherlock whimpered softly as he bottomed out at last, sat flush in his lap.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous like this” he said, with an experimental roll of the hips. Sherlock quivered and moaned on top of him and pressed himself flat, head nestled in the crook of John’s neck.

“Can we stay here all day like this…your cock up my arse…it feels fucking glorious” Sherlock wriggled a little, tiny little movements, up, down, side, rock, and then shuddered bodily, “Oh god John”, he whispered, I need you to fuck me, now, hard, soft, gentle, rough, whatever you want, just do it”.

John bucked experimentally, holding Sherlock’s hips in a firm grasp and planting his heels in the soft, lumpy mattress for leverage. The noise Sherlock made was unholy, a high-pitched keen, unquestionably loud and so fucking sexy as he thrust, so he did it again, then again, harder each time and grunting with the effort as Sherlock flopped against his chest like a ragdoll and just took it. The bed squeaked in protest with every beat.

“Too much…the noise” he groaned at the sound of a crash in the kitchen below.

“Don’t care”, Sherlock nipped at his earlobe and hummed, lazily letting John do all the work. 

The sounds seem amplified somehow, the slap of his thighs against Sherlock’s arse, the wet, sucking noise as his cock pumped in and out and the gentle slap of Sherlock, bobbing hard and leaking between their two bodies.

“You are such a lazy fuck”.

“What did you expect from me?, I’m a bit shagged out after last night”.

Sherlock licked at his neck, tickling the downy hairs at the back of his ear with the tip of his tongue in the way he knew made him tingle inside enough to make him growl in frustration and curl a leg over the back of Sherlock’s thighs to flip them both over. The bed groaned painfully beneath them. Now Sherlock lay on his back, and gazed up into John’s eyes cunning and dark just to tell him, to make sure he knew that that had been the plan all along, that he was always manipulated, always just one step behind.

“Go, on then”, he teased”, “fuck me like you want to, so hard the whole street can hear. I’m sure your mum has already, coughing on her cornflakes at the sound of her sweet little Johnny loving cocks and arses and big hairy balls and fucking up a storm inside a skinny little slut under her own roof”.

“Bastard”.

He bucked, once, hard, and Sherlock jerked up the bed an inch or so and gasped, a smirk of satisfaction playing at the corners of his mouth. He stilled and looked down, waiting for the next part, a litany of debauchery, expertly honed to push his buttons.

“You like being fucked too don’t you John?, you do it to me how you like it yourself, a big fat cock pumping away inside you so full you can hardly breathe around the feeling, taken, filled , used, with my come dripping out of your arse for days I shoved so much up you. It’s probably still there from last night, shall I check?”

John whined at the press of a long slim finger at the smarting rim of his arse, pushing in. He took it easily, still stretched and lax from the night before, panting fast as the muscle contracted around the intrusion, seeking more, drawing it in. It was disgusting, he was disgusting, unable to hold back rendered desperate, he slammed forward into tight, clenching heat and back to impale himself, both fucking and fucked simultaneously.

And Sherlock was laughing, a deep throaty rumble which made him grip harder, the waves rolling over his cock in a rhythmic squeeze. John grunted and twisted and groaned, one arm curled around Sherlock’s back and the other gripping tight to the rickety old headboard. It wobbled in his hand, the joists at their limit , the top of Sherlock’s head just touching the wood above the pillow. John slowed, he wouldn’t hurt Sherlock’s head, the stiches still visible, to be taken out tomorrow, that is if he could keep Sherlock away from the tweezers and the bathroom mirror. Sherlock sensed it, the hesitation in his hips and with one last shove crooked the finger inside him and pressed down against his prostate.

“Jesus Sherlock….fuck”.

John stuttered again, hips bucking once, twice, finally done he collapsed down onto his front, and trapped Sherlock’s wrist beneath him mid wank.

“Ow, fuck John” He rolled to the side and slipped out in a warm, wet rush.

“Let me” he said, it was the least he could do. He had half sprained him after all by flopping on top of his arm like a sack of spuds.

“Ah God…shit….fuck” Sherlock cursed, coming almost as soon as John’s hand began to move, much closer than he’d ever admit. The twat would have held on till doomsday to make John come first.

Sherlock smiled, smug and satisfied, swiping a finger across the mess on his chest to hold it in front of John’s mouth. “Happy Birthday?”, he said, all innocence, tracing around the curve of John’s lips in a sticky trail, biting his lip as he watched John lick it away. He wiped the rest on the sheets beside him and flopped back onto the pillow again.

“Sorry I’m so shit at sexy dirty talk…I know how much you get off on it….. I can only do skanky filth unfortunately”.

“No…it’s fine…it’s good…better than good in fact”.

“I’m amenable to a spot of slut-shaming myself if you ever feel the inclination”.

“What?...Oh god….I don’t know….I’ll probably just sound like a tit or a pervy old man or something”.

John turned his head and shuffled back over onto his side to face him.

“So was that really my birthday gift, your bodily fluids?”

“Ah…shit no…hang on”. Sherlock hopped out of bed and scampered across the room, sweaty and filthy with his own come but suffused with a fresh burst of energy nonetheless. The contents of his case were flung wide on the floor as he scrabbled in the bottom for was neatly wrapped small square box. He handed it to John with a flourish and sat on the end of the bed, cross-legged, and waited, eyes gleaming, for him to open it.

John prised it open carefully, and there, nestled in a bed of soft white and gold tissue was a beautiful bracelet made of intricately woven black leather. He took it out carefully, undid the tiny silver clasp and held it out to Sherlock with his right hand while presenting his left, palm up.

“Do you like it? You haven’t actually said so….I wasn’t sure what to get, medical equipment seemed so ridiculously impersonal, and I didn’t really know if you were in to accessories, but I wanted something special , that meant something, so….” 

Sherlock was nervous, scared, releasing a stream of consciousness in a rambling outburst as he fumbled with the catch, John’s wrist lying loosely on his thigh.

“Sherlock…just shut up you absolute arse…its perfect, I love it, trying to convince yourself you might have got it wrong, because you didn’t…just hurry up and put it on”.

“See, look”, Sherlock went on still with his head down but looking a little calmer now, “It wraps over twice, then you fasten it…there”. He sat back, John’s arm still held in his and beamed. A tiny disc of silver dangled down, part of the clasp, John thought at first, but there, almost imperceptible unless you sought it out were the initial JW and SH intertwined in a cursive script.

“Too much?” Sherlock frowned.

“Not from you, no….more likely never enough”, he laughed, “see, now that was too much”.

His eyes flicked over to the tray by the door. The tea would be stone cold by now and the toast dried-out and hard, defeating even his hearty appetite. Sherlock wouldn’t care, but John, well he was starved with the excessive amount of physical activity that had taken place during the night and needed a serious refuel and if he ate, there was at least a sixty per cent chance that Sherlock would try a nibble too. He would have to go down, and the sooner the better for all of them. His stomach growled, loudly.

“I can go”, Sherlock said, “if you want me too, that is….I need a smoke, and what’s a little second-hand embarrassment anyway, you stay here”.

“No”, he said, putting a hand out to stop him as he rose, “just hang out the window like normal, but put some pants and a top on….I have to do this on my own”.

Sherlock nodded once, and didn’t argue which made a change, then rummaged in the pocket of his jeans for the tin of rollies and his lighter and scooped some pants out of the tangle of sheets at the foot of the bed. He pulled them on and padded to the window, bare-footed. “It’ll be fine you know”, he said, and opened the catch, a blast of cold air rushed in which made his nipples peak and blew his hair back from his brow, “the lack of wailing and crying can be taken as an encouraging sign”.

“Yeah, I hope you’re right”.

~*~

His mum was in the kitchen, the kettle was boiling again, bubbling madly before the final click. She had her back turned, but John knew she had heard him come down, and there were three cups set out, one for each of them.

“It’s just me”.

She turned, almost relieved it seemed, that it was just them for now. He sat down at the table, the squeak of the wood made him wince as he gathered himself, no sure how to start this.

“What you saw….well, it’s exactly what you thought it was”.

It came out in a garbled rush, as his heart threatened mutiny in his chest. It felt like a band had wrapped tight around to squeeze the very air from his lungs.

“I see, and you didn’t see fit to tell me about all this before?”

“Before what?”, he asked dumbly, even though he knew what would come.

“Oh for god’s sake John….before I walked in on you naked in bed with some boy”.

And there it was, the elephant in the room. He half wished Sherlock was here, if only to deliver some whip-smart snarky comment. She shook her head and put a mug in front of him, hot liquid slopped over the side and trickled toward the edge of the table. He watched its progress with interest, it was preferable to looking her in the eye at that moment.

“And you’re sleeping together? Already? You’ve been gone less than a month John, how could you change so fast?”

“I don’t know”, he said, and it was honest this time, nothing about Sherlock would ever make sense he was a category of human all on his own, “But please don’t say it’s just a phase, or I’ve gone off the rails for the sake of it, or any other crap like that”.

“Bloody London…I knew something like this would happen”, she sipped her tea too soon, cursing when it scolded her lip, and tipped it down the sink in frustration. “Is this the first time”, she continued, “I mean, have there been a lot of boys…for either of you?”

“Not for me, no, just Sherlock”.

“And him?”

“That’s not really my place…”, he said defensively. She raised her eyebrow and huffed in disbelief.

“There’s been a fair few….before”.

John’s head snapped around, and there, standing in the doorway, fully dressed, thank god, stood Sherlock. He strode to the table, confidently pulled out a chair and sat down, his gaze cool and challenging. His mum looked shocked but mildly impressed which was all he could hope for really.

“And my son is special?”

“Yes…very”, Sherlock smiled, “Why? Don’t you think so?” he slid his palm over to take John’s hand and squeezed his fingers lightly, eyes locked on hers.

“That’s a bloody stupid question and you know it”.

Sherlock just shrugged in answer, John knew he didn’t give a damn and nothing his mum said would make the slightest bit of difference to him and the only reason he was here was to lend his support, a skinny arrogant would-be sociopath with the biggest damn heart of anyone he’d ever encountered.

“Did I do something wrong…with you and Harriet? Were your dad and me such a rotten example of married life that it…turned you both somehow?”

John could feel the tension radiate in waves at his side, Sherlock was desperate to weigh-in but holding back for John’s sake.

“It doesn’t work like that”, he snapped through gritted teeth, “It’s not some trendy lifestyle choice we made…this is it”.

“But you’re both so young….Sherlock, you’re really still a child…and it’s just…I remember in my day when I was your age, all those terrifying adverts on the tele with the big bloody iceberg and that giant fucking gravestone….are you safe?”

She looked about as mortified as he felt himself at having to ask, but John was grateful it was out in the open at last.

“We’re both clean, and we aren’t sleeping with other people so relax mum, It’s not the eighties anymore and in case you’d forgotten, I’m training to be a doctor”.

“Yes well, I just needed to ask…I love you John…are you sure?”

“I’m sure…we both are”.

She moved round the table towards Sherlock and pulled him into an awkward one-armed hug, which he bore with only the mildest trace of indignation, but the tension was still there for now in a keeping up appearances for the sake of the neighbours ,type of way “this was just all a bit of a shock…although I did wonder”, she gazed at John thoughtfully, “it’s just…people will think…..oh, never mind, it’s your birthday, I don’t want to spoil things”.

They were spoilt already John thought, and the dangers they’d faced in London felt infinitely more appealing to him in that moment than staying in his own home, with its ghosts and prejudice, lies and addictions, beneath the facade of suburban normality.

Happy Birthday John Watson.

~*~

A party at the Holmes’s meant a sit down three-course meal with expensive wine and smart –casual dress code – a party at the Watson’s on the other hand, consisted of a seasonally inappropriate barbecue in October with Booze Buster alcohol and economy burgers from Iceland, dress code non-existent.

Mum had insisted. It was always the plan to do something, dinner at Nando’s and ten-pin bowling, or the cinema if there was anything half decent on, but this morning had changed that and now she was on some sort of mad mission to prove how accepting and happy she was. And as much as he wanted to, John didn’t buy it, there was just a gut feeling there was something a little forced about the whole thing.

Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, shopping for frozen food and bread rolls without complaint, he’d even helped John drag the barbecue out of the shed and repair the stack of bricks that they usually stood it on, and there was the added bonus of watching the lean, tight muscle flex and shift under his clothes as he worked. Not that Sherlock was unaware, the way he bent at the waist to show his arse and stretched out his arms to shake off an imaginary muscular spasm.

Something had to give. But not only that, he was a little worried too, Sherlock had touched his head a lot today, just the odd brush of a fingertip or a momentary squeeze at the temple, but every time he asked he’d just brush it off.

“Just a headache John, we didn’t get much sleep last night, remember?”

He’d toyed with texting Mycroft, had a message typed out – _Sherlock’s having after- pains, what should I do?_ And deleted it again, figuring if Sherlock had remembered something, or was ill, John would be the first person he’d tell.

Trust, it was all about trust now.

At seven that evening, they went up to change, mum having invited most of the street, some old mates and a relative or two during the course of the afternoon. John felt touch-starved and edgy, unable to find a moment alone, not likely to get one now with the food to prepare and the guests arriving in dribs and drabs. Angie and Derek from across the road came first, then old Madge from next door and Mike’s mother Doreen with a card and an apology because Mike hadn’t made it home. Not that he minded, it was all for appearances so his mum could present a united front and be congratulated on her lovingly close relationship with her grown-up children. And their same-sex partners, if her middle-class sensibilities could handle that part.

Harry passed him on the landing on the way to the bedroom, hair wet from the shower and wrapped in a blue fluffy towel.

“Is that dickwad here yet?”

“Er…who?”

Dickwad could refer to a number of people, she would need to give him more to go on. But spooky detective Sherlock was on the case too and answered for him.

“Yes, he appears to be burning some questionable meat in the back garden”.

Instead of replying , she grimaced, and stomped to her bedroom, slamming the door so hard it popped back open rather ruining the dramatic exit. She shut it with a vicious kick instead, whispered curses sounding from within.

“Am I missing something, I am, aren’t I? What was that all about exactly, and how do you know about it when I don’t?”

John stared in confusion at the stubbornly closed door and back to Sherlock who looked thoughtful and amused. He grabbed his arm and pulled him the two yards to his own room and closed the door. Sometime over the curse of the day his mum had been in and tidied, the airbed packed in its box on the wardrobe, the sticky sheets changed and the bed re-made. It was nothing much worse than she’d dealt with since the night of his first wet dream, but still? Humilation just didn’t cover it.

“I did point it out last night”, Sherlock said, perching his arse on the edge of the desk and peeling off his sweaty t-shirt. John was distracted by nipples and abs, knocked clean off his current train of thought. He was sure the bastard did it on purpose, flashing his perfect little tits like that.

John stared at him. “No…still nothing”.

“Really John for someone so clever you can be so bloody thick sometimes, especially when you’re a little…distracted…he was at the bar last night and I asked you who he was, Lance Mercer, you said, works with your mum?”

John sat down on the neatly made bed, looking stupidly up at him and practically salivating at the sight, he really should put a damn top on if he expected a coherent answer.

“Yeah…so what’s she all narky for?” he said, jerking his thumb at the closed bedroom door. Lance had been around a lot over the summer, work stuff at first, reports to collaborate on, helping mum with her computer skills then the odd take-away and bottle of wine, But Lance was so much younger and his mum had never bothered with men since dad had gone that John just hadn’t read the signs, or had wilfully ignored them, more like, plus he’d been gone for a month and his mum was still drinking too much…

“I despair John, really I do….he’s sleeping with your mother, but he’s made several passes at Harry already, but your mum doesn’t believe her and accused her of just clinging onto the memory of her father and not allowing your mother to move on and be happy with someone new”.

“But he’s, what, ten years younger than mum?…shit, great, the first bloke since dad and he turns out to be a cunt”, he sagged, and leant back on his elbows, “but he knows about Harry and Clara, they’ve been here together plenty of times when he’s been round….wait, does he think all she needs is a go on his cock to cure her or something?”

“Precisely”, Sherlock as he ruffled his hands through his lush, dark hair, artfully tousled without even trying, the way that never worked for him. It would take a fist full of mousse and access to a mirror to get anywhere close to that effect, and if John didn’t get to fuck Sherlock whenever he chose he might just hate him a bit. 

“What would you do…if you were me that is?”, he asked, trying to pull his gaze to eye level and at least pretend he was capable of paying attention when faced with his half-naked boyfriend. But it was a dangerous move, to ask Sherlock of all people something like this, how to handle it, and it couldn’t end well either way, so he may as well go for broke.

“A quiet word maybe”, Sherlock smirked, whether at the plan in his head or John’s wandering eyes, he couldn’t quite tell, “A little constructed reality conveniently caught on camera….and maybe a little road trip with explicit consent of the owner”. 

“That sounds a bit dodgy Sherlock, you’re not planning anything illegal are you?”

“Does that sound like something I would get involved in?”, said Sherlock, moving closer.

“Would it involve us getting out of here any time soon?”

“It might”, he purred, “because I’m sure your aware that despite what your mother said she has no desire to see us…being intimate again. So what do you think, should we mess up this lovely neat bed she just made?”

His knee touched the bed, and pressing a hand to John’s shoulder he pushed him back and straddled him, the weight of his body, heavy and grounding. “No one will miss us for ten minutes or so…what do you think we should do?”

What was the point in an answer John thought, as he fisted his hands into soft dark curls just to make a mess them. Sherlock was otherwise occupied.

Twenty minutes and a blow-job later John followed Harry downstairs. Sherlock had gone first after cleaning his teeth, a surprisingly sociable move for him, while John laid out the plan to his sister, the when and where and how to get rid of sleazy Lance.

The food was almost ready and he was put on bread roll duty, slicing and buttering a pile of floury baps and stacking them on a tray in an unsteady pyramid. His mum was out in the garden with a coat on, standing with Lance as he converted meat into small piles of carbon. The smell was disgusting.

“Hey John lad!” he called, coming in with an iffy plate of burgers that a dog wouldn’t eat and setting them down on the table, dead centre. John slid them over and put the birthday cake there instead.

“How’s Uni going, got your leg over yet with any of those posh birds?, I’ll bet you’re beating them off with a stick mate…lucky you, wish I was a teenager again”.

Lance was wearing a football shirt of all things, those hideous polyester multi-coloured monstrosities who men of a certain age and inclination thought to be suitable daywear. They were always too small, straining over beer guts and clinging to rolls of fat like cling-film, to emphasise every lump, bump and man-boob to nauseating effect. He deserved to go down just for buying it, eighty quid to provide a human billboard for a pay-day loan company. 

John ignored him, and shared a significant look with his mum, who would obviously prefer that he played along and pretended to be straight. Tough shit. He was out of fucks to give and that wasn’t fair to Sherlock, he deserved better from him, but this town, this fucking small town, with its small minds that had stolen so much of his life and his sanity for far too long, because he was afraid of their censure?

He didn’t know these people, not really, and they damn well didn’t know him, and in two days time he’d be back in London and away from all this shit. Not a moment too soon.

“Harry said something about needing a lift to Clara’s later, I said I’d tell you”.

That was it, word for word that Sherlock had constructed, just lay the trap and let him fall in of his own accord, keep it vague, only lies had detail after all. Lance huffed, but a small smiled played at the corners of his mouth. John noticed. Spend enough time around Sherlock and you saw through the bullshit and learnt to pick up on the important things.

“I’ll just go see then shall I? That girl, always wants me for something”.

He winked and John felt sick, his mum continued to serve out food, taking biscuits and cake through to Madge, Angie and Rick in the living room. He joined her, and wandered through with a four-pack of beers, cracking one off for his uncle Ben and taking one for himself, the rest placed on the floor by the armchair. Sherlock came in moments later, smug, with a swagger in his step, Lance scuttled off to the barbecue again and Harry flopped down on the sofa beside him.

“Your boyfriend is a fucking bona fide genius kid”, she said, slapping him on the leg, “I take back all the stupid shit I said, I might just be a little bit in love with him myself after that”.

“I warned you, he tends to have that effect”.

Harry smiled and squeezed his leg, and shuffled along the seat to make room for Sherlock who’d been hovering slightly uncertain with a can of coke in his hand.

“Not drinking tonight?”

“Best not, you never know”, he added sagely, we might have to make a sharp exit later on, I need to be alert”.

“I don’t speak cryptic Sherlockian, not when I’ve had a drink, care to share?”

“Later”, Sherlock said, after your mum has embarrassed you…look, cake”. He held up his phone and took a close-up of dark chocolate frosting and white chocolate shards illuminated by countless small candles dribbling gold waxy smears onto the buttercream spread over a sumptuous sponge. “Mycroft”, he said, as if that explained it, which oddly, it did.

John cringed while they sang Happy Birthday, politely opened cards and gifts, kissed far too many cheeks to count and washed down some pizza with the rest of the beer, he got money from his mum, voucher’s from Harry and cash from almost everyone else, the impoverished student inside more than grateful for their foresight. Sherlock fiddled with the camera on his phone and snuck a few pictures of John eating cake when he thought he wasn’t looking. Harry snatched it up with a grin and Sherlock tried to wrestle it away again, both almost on top of him in the end, Harry won, although John suspected Sherlock let her, and she motioned for them both to huddle together.

“Come on”, she said unimpressed as they sat squashed shoulder to shoulder at one end, “Arms, cuddles look happy, kiss him for fuck’s sake it’s your birthday, last night you couldn’t keep your hands off him”.

Now that got people interested. His mum looked uneasy as she hovered in the doorway Lance behind her with a burger in hand, the only one eating them ironically. All she said was, “Can you just not please John?” but that was all it took to shoot holes in the entire pile of fakery and lies.

“What mum…so it just has to stay our little secret, that’s fine as long as no-one outside the family finds out?”.

He didn’t shout, his voice was calm and the words were measured, the meaning clear but not aggressively so, the thinly veiled anger remained under control. Of course you couldn’t adjust for every know variable, there was always some dickhead with an axe to grind, lucky for them it was this particular dickhead, poetic justice really.

“Don’t speak to your mum like that son”.

“Son? You’re fucking kidding me Lance? Go to hell, you’re not my fucking dad!”

“John! Apologize to Lance now!”

“Apologize? What the hell do I need to apologize for? Because here’s a good one for you”, he looked around the room, making sure everyone was paying attention, “Sherlock isn’t just my friend, he’s my boyfriend and I’m proud of him and us, so I don’t give a damn if any of you are uncomfortable, so just fucking deal with it mum!”

And so he kissed him, right there, pulled Sherlock down by the nape of his neck and snogged the face off him in front of everyone, while Harry snapped picture after picture with a mad cackle.

And no-one cared, the world didn’t end and no-one walked out in disgust. Madge beamed widely at them and ruffled Sherlock’s hair, and he tried not to care, but John knew he was mortified at the familiar gesture. Sherlock saved tactile for him.

“How wonderful!” She said, “More cake anyone?”

~*~ 

Sherlock stood in the hallway, and casually tossed the car keys up and down in his hand. It had been too fucking simple in the end, some people were far too easy to manipulate when you knew what their pressure point was. John had been perfect as always, just the right blend of studied belligerence and soul-crushing innocence, to Sherlock, anyway, and Harry had been surprisingly enthused with the plan, really embraced the spirit of the thing, and they were all going to benefit because of it.

Harry had asked her favour, and of course Lance wanted something in return. Shame he hadn’t noticed the phone set to video propped up against the radiator cover directly across the hall from where they stood. Touching the breasts of your girlfriends daughter, tut, tut. The break-up was imminent anyway, but no need to tell him that.

Sherlock asked for the use of his car in exchange for their silence and the footage to be deleted on its return. Idiot. He’d have copies made as a matter of course, ready to upload to various sensitive locations should there be the slightest hint of trouble for Harry, or for himself and John.

He felt another pang and brushed a hand across his brow, every time it got clearer, vague shapes like shadow puppets at first, black and white, then colour, more outlines and definition, then smells, scents carried on the air, and finally, sound.

He’d left the room a few minutes ago to let the charged atmosphere settle, told John to follow five minutes or so later and meet him out here. He waited, head clearer than it had been in weeks, sober, no alcohol or drugs in his system, a minimal amount of caffeine and a fair bit more of nicotine. 

The living room door clicked open and John appeared, and he laughed at himself, the way the beat of his heart picked up, the clench of his stomach, the warm, safe feeling in his chest whenever he was in his presence, it all made sense now.

“It’s been coming back in flashes all day,” he began, “but I needed to be sure before I told you, and I’m sorry, I know you thought there was something wrong….but I’ve done it John, all the pieces of this, all worked out”, he tapped at his temple, for emphasis, and the stiches felt rough beneath his fingertips,….”I know how it fits together, where this all leads, and how we can end it too”.

“It came back…what happened…you remember who did it, don’t you?”

Sherlock nodded, eyes gleaming , “Yes I do….go get your stuff…or not…I don’t care, but we have to leave now, John, just you and me”.

“Where are we going?”

“Back. Back to London…Now. Tonight”.

 


End file.
